


Human Nature

by toomanyships-sendhelp (ValarMorghulis508), ValarMorghulis508



Series: Only Human [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Play, Asphyxiation, Blindfolds, Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Past Abuse, Rimming, Shibari, Triggers, Vibrators, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 47,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValarMorghulis508/pseuds/toomanyships-sendhelp, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValarMorghulis508/pseuds/ValarMorghulis508
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Human Error - Now that Mary isn't in the picture, Sherlock and John are able to begin their lives together. The only problem is, neither of them seem to know where to start. Complete<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Thank you.”

John’s eyes never left the ground. His left fingers curled tight and he felt the strain up the inside of his forearm. On the skin beneath his winter jacket and woolen jumper, he felt the cold bite of the winter breeze. It chilled him down to the marrow in his bones. It took everything within him not to turn and simply walk away back to the warmth of the cab, then home to a fire at Baker Street. But he couldn’t do it. He owed it to her.

He had said his goodbyes shortly after, but that was different. He had been driven mad by the guilt and the rage and the exhaustion of the lies upon lies that his Wife had become. He needed to see her again in a final send off. A final goodbye that would see her out of his life forever and he needed Sherlock to be there for it.

“For coming, I mean. I know this must be hard for you.”

“Nonsense. She only kidnapped me, cuffed me to a radiator, drugged me and used me as bait to get to you, why would I be bitter?” John let out a half smile. He knew his detective had moved well past the horror she had inflicted those months ago. He wasn’t one for holding onto things. If an unpleasant situation arose, Sherlock would simply deal with it, keep any necessary information and discard any useless information associated with it. He had only kept Mary at all for what she had meant to John. Early on, anyway. Not the psychopath, the woman that saw John through the darkness.

Though it had been hard on both of them, John had learned to let it go as well. Nothing good ever came from holding onto pain and resentment. Sherlock had told him _resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die._ He didn’t seem to remember why it was allowed to remain in his Mind Palace, given its regular organising and periodic deleting of useless information. Sherlock said it had just stuck to him. It had taken time, but John had let go as well. Now he was ready to be free of her completely.

He lowered to his knees and delicately placed the small cluster of white tulips wrapped with campanulas on the small, marble headstone. It read ‘Mary Watson’. He had never met with her to change her name back. It pained him that his name would be forever carved in stone by hers but what’s done is done. He needed to leave every fibre of Mary’s hold over him right in this moment. In this cemetery. He owed it to Sherlock and he owed it to himself. He rose to his feet and felt his left hand tense, yet again with no abandon in sight.

He felt a delicate and velvet touch slide in between the fingers on his right and gently squeezed his hand. 

“It’s OK, John. You know I find sentiment typically useless. Though given how everything has unfolded recently, I have come to accept perhaps it may not be so impractical." He paused. "Well no, it’s still completely impractical, but it is wasted on someone that can’t appreciate it.”

“I know, Sherlock.” They stood in silence, Sherlock allowing his doctor the moment he needed. He had seen this many times before. He, himself found it useless but John would be better off. He had mentioned, in passing comments, of the chance of coming here and if it would be appropriate. Given John’s unfortunate ability to _not_ be subtle in anything, Sherlock found it easiest to allow it to be over with. He wasn't sure what he could still be holding onto. It was real enough for him. John had shot her himself, so that wasn’t it. He had his closure shortly after he killed her, John had told him so himself. Sherlock wasn’t all too good at reading emotions but perhaps It was something to do with actually seeing the headstone made something click in his funny little mind.

He had seen John do something similar when he was standing over another headstone. Granted one a bit more extravagant. Mycroft would have never let his younger brother go unnoticed under a lawn-marker. Sherlock's headstone had been beautiful and it had come up to John’s hip. Sherlock had asked if he could keep it after he was resurrected but John had told him he couldn’t. More sentiment. Dull.

 _Oh._ Sherlock thought to himself as he felt John squeeze a little tighter. This may have started out about Mary but it had rather unfortunately blossomed into something else. They both knew Sherlock was not good at finding the right words in a decent situation. Surely John would be forgiving if he selected the wrong ones in a delicate one.

"I won't leave you again, John." He tried to cover any uncertainty in the words with the certainty of the promise behind them. He heard John catch a breath. John slowly and finally brought his eyes from the ground and up to Sherlocks. "Sherlock, I know. I know that was a one time and you did it for me. On some level I appreciate it. It did hurt, but there's no point going into it. You came back to me and it's done." He gave another squeeze of his hand and a quick smile that had left as soon as it came. John gave Sherlock a light tug and set off to leave. "Let's go before the chill really -"

Sherlock held his grip and forced him to remain in place. John had lost his sentence the moment he saw those perfect blue eyes, slightly marred with a chestnut freckle, and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Sherlock, lets go?"

"John, I need you to know that I don't want to put you through that again. You've been through so much and..." He searched for the right words. "Now that I have you, please know that I won't let you go. And that I never want to abandon you again." He glanced down to the simple engraving before turning back to his doctor. "Unless, of course, it means your life again but this time I promise I'll tell you."

John's hand relaxed and his fingers uncurled. He brought the hand to Sherlock's cheek and rubbed it softly with his thumb.

"You're a git. Next time you feel like running off, try and stop me from following you." He guided the taller man's lips towards his own and met them in a delicate kiss. A kiss filled with safety, warmth and promise. As the two men parted, they fell back naturally into their interlocked fingers. They crossed the cemetery to return to the cab, leaving the tulips to rest upon a chapter closed.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning was crisp with the new air of winter. A delicate frost had formed overnight on the roofs of cars and the corners of glass windows. They were distraught when they met the brief reprieve of the car's heating before they could get inside Scotland Yard. The words between Sherlock and the cabbie formed tangibly as they passed through lips and their warmth met the icy breeze. John, shivering under his coat and winter coat ordered Sherlock to pay the man so they could go inside.

"But John he overcharged us! He's still operating on the increased fare base from yesterday's weekend costs. It should have only been -"  
"I don't care Sherlock, it's freezing. It would have only been five pounds or so and we should get inside before one of us catches something. I won't have a repeat of your last cold if I can help it." Their eyes met in a smile.

The last few months had been more than either of them could had hoped for. They had taken small steps together to rid Sherlock of the filth that Mary had pumped him with, luckily Sherlock hadn't succumbed to withdrawals. He hadn't been exposed to enough of it and what he had was given to him in undesirable circumstances. When it came to the obvious decision for mind over matter, his transport didn't stand a chance. John had silently grumbled, wishing his cocaine addiction could have been disregarded as easily. It probably would have if it didn't do such powerful things to Sherlock.

And John, having had the time to grieve and move on, did so much easier with the help of his detective. It had been a fortnight since they had visited the cemetery and John was surprised how much better he had felt because of it. They were now both ready to move on and continue their usual work with Lestrade.

They pushed through the heavy glass doors at New Scotland Yard, immediately relieved by the lack of a winters breeze and proceeded through to the elevator to take them to Lestrade’s office, that would no doubt be heated. The Detective Inspector was terrible at cold weather.

Sherlock had an obvious air about him as they existed the lift. He clearly didn't want to be here but it was, unfortunately, necessary. Given their few months off, a stack of paperwork had been building up needed their signatures pertaining to cases solved where they had begun to assist. The way everything had unfolded with Mary, the pair of them sort of just dropped off the grid. That works fine for TV shows and storybooks but real life means paperwork and red tape. That and now that they were both physically fit to return to their positions as Consulting Detectives, they'd have to sign yet more paperwork to ensure Scotland Yard that they were, in fact, fit to return to their consulting.

John had convinced him to come into the Yard after a relatively long discussion. Sherlock was adamant that Lestrade could have the paperwork brought to them and they had no need to leave the flat at all. John won him over by arguing that if the whole department could actually see that they were up and back to their usual selves, there was less of a chance that more paperwork and inquiries would arise. That and he would be very.. very appreciative. John couldn't help but smile as Sherlock's ears perked upright and insist they go the very next morning.

John had to keep from breaking into a run to keep up with the detective as he strode briskly into Lestrade's office. Sherlock's words fell very quickly and near startled the DI right out of his takeaway cup.  
"We're here. Where is your paperwork."  
Lestrade, still with his tea to his lips, raised one eyebrow in a very bemused fashion and looked up to the clock in the corner of the room.  
"It's just turned nine! John how on earth did you get him in so early?"  
"I can be very convincing." John shot a smile up to the detective to see his gaze still focused solely upon Lestrade.  
"Yes, there's to be sexual favours. Hence my desire to have this over with. The papers, please."  
John brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and made a feeble attempt to massage the embarrassment from it. ThoughLestrade and his division had made the assumption years ago, even before Sherlock ... John still preferred some things stay private.

Lestrade gave John a quick smile before setting his takeaway cup on his desk. He had their papers ready to go in a folder in his filing cabinet. He had them all in one place on the odd chance he could actually pin them down long enough to get a few signatures. He pulled them from the large brown envelope and set them in front of the pair, each having their own copies to sign. There must have been a good forty or so pages that needed attention. John rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. This is going to be a little longer than the 'two minutes' he promised Sherlock. Lestrade held out two pens, one in each hand, and looked at them as if to say, 'well? Off you go!"

They each took a pen from Lestrade, sat down and reached for the papers in front of them. John started carefully reading through the typical boilerplate, as if he knew what half of it meant. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock in his peripheral, he was already scribbling his signature on any paper that required it. Lestrade had taken his seat and resumed sipping from the white paper cup.

Once John was pleased with what he read, he began signing. Sherlock, of course, had already finished by this stage and was pestering John to hurry up.  
"John, _do_ write faster. I have cultures in the fridge that move faster than you." It was almost enough to make John write slower, just to pester him.

John was almost finished when Lestrade's door was opened again, this time by DI Dimmock. John hadn't seem him since the case of the Blind Banker. He wondered if he remembered him.  
"Lestrade, when you have a minute I have something I'd like you to look over for me"

"Of course he wants your help Lestrade. I told him he'd do well if he stuck with me and I haven't seen him in years. Naturally he falls to the next best, which would be you."  
"I maybe could have consulted you a little more of you weren't dead." Dimmock replied somewhat defensively.  
"I'm not dead now. Haven't been dead for a while. Just ask John. You remember John?" Sherlock gestured vaguely in John’s direction who gave him a quick smile and a polite nod before returning to finish his paperwork.  
"Oh that one? You've managed to hold on to that one, did you?"  
"Yes, John's actually picking up on things." Sherlock cocked his head slightly turning his question, but not his focus to John, "John, if you examine Detective Inspector Dimmock’s suit closely you'll see that he slept here last night instead of going home and the hem of his coat says -"  
"Alright, we get it." Dimmock cut him off rather abruptly, but understandably so. Not many enjoyed being read the way that John did. John did his best to tune the two out.

Lestrade had heard the childish bickering from both of them upon completion of the Blind Banker. He had hoped to never have them in a room together while he was present but some things are just unavoidable.

John started scribbling faster, just desperate to get home to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was starting a fire for them when they had left and he was looking forward to getting back to its warmth. The typical London winter weather was not one that agreed with what Afghanistan had left him and his shoulder ached heavily with impending rain. Until he was back in Baker Street with his feet up in front of a fire John would have to tolerate the dull throb. He winced as he rolled his shoulder around trying to loosen it. Sherlock, forever updating the information fed to him from his surroundings, noticed immediately and put a warm hand on the offending joint without pausing in his speech. The warmth spread pleasantly and although it did nothing to abate the ache it was comforting at the very least.

Dimmock let out an exasperated breath and turned to John as he was signing the last of the papers.  
"Seriously, mate. Why do you put yourself through this? Surely he's as bad with you as he is with the rest of us."

John placed his pen tentatively back on Greg's desk and spent a moment too long positioning it against his pile of papers. How on Earth was he to answer that question? He didn't even know what Sherlock labelled them as, let alone what he thought of it. Before he could form any sentence that didn't sound like a prepubescent teen professing his love for the man, Sherlock cut in.

"He's my..." He caught John's eye and was met with an expression that mimicked what he felt when he tried to get the words out. Not typically one for public displays of emotion, or any emotion at all really this interjection was entirely unexpected. "He's... we're .." Sherlock turned back to Dimmock with a slightly straightened back, shoulders set strong he finished with a nod “.. we're something."

 _We're something._ John smiled. A different smile from what he usually gave the detective out of annoyance or that came from watching the brilliance of the man at work. This smile was warmer and felt like it came from deeper within him. No man knew what Sherlock was thinking at any given moment. Less, no one knew what he was feeling even when faced with extreme adversity. The man had created an art of hiding any emotion when it was not necessary to the case. But having known him for as long as John had, the years he had him and the years he hadn’t, he recognised when Sherlock was was simply brushing off an answer or failing to give one at all. This answer he gave with the most conviction possible to him, and it made John smile with both pride and affection to hear Sherlock give a definitive and personal statement.

Dimmock slowly raised one eyebrow and opened his mouth, no doubt to make some crude remark before Lestrade raised both hands. Perhaps in a subconscious surrender more than trying to quell the fighting.  
"Just stop, the pair of you. Dimmock. Get out. I'll come help when these two have gone."  
"Actually, if John is finished I see no further reason for us to stay."

John stood and looked hopefully towards Lestrade for some kind of permission to go, as if he was a bystander between children in the principal’s office. Lestrade waved them out the door, clearly hating this Monday before it even had a chance to establish itself.  
"Just go. I'll call if we need you." Sherlock bared his teeth to Dimmock in what could have passed as a smile if it wasn't so passive aggressive. He then turned to Lestrade and gave a genuine nod as he head out the door.  
"Thank you, Graham"  
"It's Greg!" He called out after him with a tone in his voice that could’ve passed as annoyed if it hadn’t been accompanied by a wry smile. As John passed Lestrade the men shook hands with a nod and a shared smile.  
“Look after yourself, John. Looks like you’ve got your hands full with him.” Lestrade’s smile widened as John cleared his throat, looking through the doorway after his detective.  
“I’d better get going….” He let go of Lestrade’s hand and rubbed the back of his neck even as the DI jerked his head indicating his dismissal. John, again in a hurry to keep up with the long legs of the man, did so with a warm blush creeping up the back of his ears. The cold winter’s air didn't bother him so much on the way back to Baker Street, the ache in his shoulder almost forgotten with the warmth of Sherlock’s words to comfort him.  
  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
He hadn't heard much of what Sherlock said in the cab. Something about Dimmock that wasn't worth snapping out of the state John had found himself in. The words clung to the inside of his brain and wouldn't shake loose. He could hear the words in Sherlock's voice repeating, with the same endearing tone he had clearly tried desperately to convey. Is this the most he's felt for anyone before? It was certainly the only instance of affection John could recall the detective ever showing.

John thought back to their last few months together and everything had seemed relatively one sided. Of course, they had both enjoyed the physical connection between them but it had always been Sherlock that was.. John blushed simply from the thought of finding the correct word. Sherlock had always been 'on top', as it were. Is that how he preferred it? Had Sherlock had any previous lovers?

"John?"

John's focus came crashing back to the small black cab, the frost on the glass outside, their breath hanging in rapidly dissipating clouds before them and the man sitting beside him with his usual 'have you been paying attention?' stare. Clearly he hadn't been. Sherlock knew that he hadn't been. What was the last thing he said? Some passing reference to not wanting to work with Dimmock again, maybe? He took a stab in the dark and gave a response,  
"Of course." Brilliant. Just vague enough to answer a typical Sherlock question with enough to let on he was listening. John felt chuffed. Sherlock leant back and smiled and the positive feeling immediately dissolved. Crap. What had he said? What had he, by feigning attention, agreed to?  
"Good." Sherlock nodded and returned his attention to the streets of London as they zipped past pedestrian’s attempting to shield themselves from the oppressive cold.  
"Wait, what?" His face scrunched up in confusion John shook his head and blinked.

"Thank you for your cooperation. I'll advise you when I see it fit to go ahead." Now he was definitely in trouble. He almost felt as though he had given consent to take part in one of his various social experiments but the sideways devilish grin Sherlock had flashed to John was dripping in bad intentions. Or good intentions, depending on your interpretation of the word. John knew exactly what that smile meant. The sudden thought that he would, again, be at Sherlock's mercy at some arranged time, unbeknownst to him, was completely arousing.

They arrived at Baker Street a short time later, leaving John's thoughts to run rampant with possibilities of what the detective had in store for him. He had found something inside him that reacted blissfully when Sherlock was in control of him. But wasn't that it? Wasn't their relationship built on 'Sherlock, the great detective with his companion'? Turned, naturally, into a sexual context, it seemed only fitting he would want to submit completely to his brilliance and let him take control of his pleasure as well. But what about the time until then. John had no idea what Sherlock was planning. After what the detective had said at the Yard, then this tantalising turn of events, John's arousal was rapidly hardening against the fabric of his pants. He attempted to subtly adjust himself but the amused snort from beside him revealed that the art of subtlety was not one of John’s strengths.

Hurrying ahead, John paid the fare to the cab driver and met Sherlock at the front door. Sherlock unlocked the big wooden door and pushed inside to escape the winds of winter. As they entered, Mrs Hudson was grabbing her coat with the intent to pass them by.  
"Hello dears! Oh that was quick work with the detective inspector, I expected you much later. In a hurry to come back to the warmth were you? I've got a fire upstairs that's going quite well, shouldn't need too much attention. I'm just heading out to pick up a few things and meet a friend for lunch. I'll be back later on!" She was clearly in some sort of hurry, but Mrs Hudson could never shorten a quick goodbye.

Both men stood to each side, allowing the small woman to pass between them. Neither man moved or spoke, but the passion between their eyes could burn through steel. John could clearly read what Sherlock was thinking but he had other ideas, ideas that had formed during his distracted thoughts in the cab. Their powerful stare kept as she reached the door, passing through it and closing it behind her. John thought to himself, _perfect._


	3. Chapter 3

Both men lay tangled amongst the burgundy silk sheets of Sherlock Holmes' bed. The heady aroma of sex hung thick in the air as Sherlock rested his head on John's chest damp with exertion, listening with fascination as the heart rate returned slowly to resting. The organ thudded against the rib cage it was enclosed within furiously, each pump slower than the last as John drew deep, easy breaths.

John carded his fingers affectionately through the satiated detective’s hair and smiled fondly. He seemed so vulnerable in this post coital embrace, the only time when Sherlock's mind was quiet and he caught a glimpse of the man behind the genius. It was not often that Sherlock was content to lie still and silent, only in this brief time and John basked in the comfortable quiet. In a fit of curiosity a query bubbled to the surface and quietly slipped out before John could filter it.

"Sherlock, am I your first?" John felt him tense slightly and kept his fingers gently running through the dark curls until Sherlock relaxed back to him. The detective had been expecting these sort of personal questions for quite some time. While he and John had been merely friends it was simple enough to deflect such questions but now they were more he supposed he owed the man answers.

"You may be surprised to hear, John, that you are _not_ the first." Sherlock tugged impatiently to restart the hand that stopped caressing his head, the digits frozen in shock as John tried to digest the surprising information. John had never even considered the possibility that Sherlock had ever had another lover, though, at his age he supposed it was unlikely he hadn’t had at least a few experiences. Then again, this _was_ Sherlock...

"Really? I just thought with the whole 'my body is my transport' thing that sex would be way down on the list of things that were labelled as important. You barely manage to _eat_ some days." John obeyed Sherlock's insistent tugging and resumed toying with the curls while letting his curious mind invent scenes of Sherlock with another man. Sherlock writhing in pleasure at the ministrations of a stranger. The thought did not bring him any comfort and he felt his stomach twist slightly with jealousy.

"Honestly John, I can _hear_ you thinking." Sherlock commented with a wry smile "There's been no one like you and since you will be my last there is little room for comparison." Somewhat mollified, John nodded and huffed his assent. He was surprised that Sherlock was being so forthcoming with such personal details and was loathe to waste the rare opportunity. He risked another sensitive question while he had the compliant detective in such a generous frame of mind.

"What was he like?" Sherlock sighed, he had locked these formative memories deep in the pits of his mind palace and reluctantly set about retrieving the details.

"There has only been three. A mere trifle compared to the exploits of one ‘ _Three Continents Watson_ ’. I suppose you’ll want to hear about them in chronological order so the more appropriate question would be 'what was _she_ like'?"

John froze, open mouthed and absolutely uncomprehending. "But- But you said- I thought girls 'weren't your area'!?"

"They aren't, but where do you think I formed such a hypothesis, John? Such a statement as that must be founded from somewhere. After a less than pleasurable and truthfully mortifying experience with the opposite sex, I came to the conclusion that I am not attracted to women sexually." The detective spoke as though he were relaying the details of a particularly non consequential experiment instead of a negative personal experience.

"Right. Of course. Bloody hell." John was still reeling from the knowledge that not only was he not Sherlock's first, but that female hands had been lain willingly upon his detective. Once again, his brain leapt into overdrive imagining Sherlock with his hands on a pair of curved hips.

"John, You're thinking again. And I suppose you will want the intimate details of the experience?"

"Yes." He replied too quickly and softened a bit adding. "Well, if that’s okay with you, of course. I don't want to make you uncomfortable." He felt guilty, prying into Sherlock’s deeply guarded sexual history. He doubted that the detective had ever confided these details to anyone in his life.

"Nonsense.” Sherlock waved away John’s uncertainty with a wave of his hand. “You have been extremely accommodating to me and my _unique_ personality. The least I can do is submit to your questioning. For a time." John sat up, resting his back against the headboard and letting Sherlock rearrange his long limbs until he lay his back against John’s sturdy chest.

“Ask away then.” He nodded, taking John’s left hand in his and exploring the calluses left from the years of use of his weapon.

“The girl. How old were you?” John waited as Sherlock went quiet, fingers subconsciously moving around his own he knew the detective had disappeared within to retrieve details. When he opened his eyes again Sherlock seemed somehow, less.

“I was in upper school, sixth form. Her name was Lucy and she was the first person of the opposite sex to really communicate with me. Until then, I had kept to myself and my study which was hardly a mental challenge. I believed her interest was genuine, having nothing to compare it to, and she initiated sexual relations with me. Naturally, I understood the mechanics of copulating, however, my body failed to respond at the opportune time." He stopped abruptly, remembering the shame of the experience culminating from total confusion about attraction and sexuality.

John whistled through his teeth and squeezed Sherlock’s hand in a comforting gesture, their fingers intertwined.   
“That’s a bit rough, but not unusual for your first time.” Sherlock nodded in agreement but found himself lost in the emotions he had safely locked away for so many years.

They had been there, in the back of her rusted Honda Civic in winter, their combined breath fogging up the windows until it provided privacy from any who might venture into the quiet paddock. Engaged in heavy petting, she was insistently and urgently divesting him of clothing until he sat naked and awkward beneath her predatory stare. She had palmed at him, trying to rouse any kind of reaction but when Sherlock looked at the curve of her breasts and the long, blonde hair he felt nothing. Taking his hand and rubbing it between her legs she tried to elicit something from the bewildered young man but what little feeling it roused was akin not to arousal but disgust. Sherlock remembered apologising profusely as the offended girl yelled at him, tugging her clothes back on and throwing him out of the car, his clothes dumped unceremoniously in the mud. He recalled how he seemed caught, immobilised with shock in the gelatinous mud, the icy wind cutting to the bone and still he couldn’t move. Sherlock didn’t understand, everything progressed as it should have, first the kissing, then the touching and then what should have been the making of him as a man was denied to him by his own body. He had felt broken, ashamed and unworthy.

“Sherlock? You with me?” Sherlock opened his eyes and found John’s face within inches of his own, blurry and unfocused. “You alright?” He blinked and nodded, far from where he had been when the memories took him he was now lying on his back with a concerned John hovering over him, fingers at the pulse point in his wrist.

“Yes John, I’m fine. My apologies. I don't often delve into memories with such detail."

Sherlock sat up and adjusted himself back against the headboard with John studying every move he made. He hadn't dared to return to the memories he had kept in his vaults under lock and key. In truth he should have just been rid of them all together. Discarded along with other useless or painful information he had accumulated. In truth, he had only kept them for the one reason of them being one of his oldest puzzles he was yet to solve.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't know this would be so hard for you." John had returned from the kitchen, he hadn't seen him leave, with a glass of water that Sherlock dismissed with a gentle wave of his hand.   
"It's not that. It's just another instance of my transport being insufficient to handle my intellect."

John met his gaze with a disapproving eyebrow and a soft shake of his head.   
"Sherlock -"

"John, It's fine." He raised his arm and reached for his doctor, coaxing him back into bed. "Please." John sighed, defeated, and placed the glass on the nightstand before crawling back into the blankets and up against his detective. Sherlock moved around him and returned to the comfort of their previous position, flush against the strong chest and bathed in the aroma of his John.

"The way in which my mind works, as I've explained before, any brain only has a finite amount of space to harbour various data. It is a mistake to think that, when filling a room with furniture, that the room has elastic walls, the same thinking must be applied to the brain. There comes a time when, for every addition of knowledge, you forget something that you knew before. That's why I delete the useless facts such as - "   
"Whether we revolve around the sun or the moon?" John had resumed tracing his fingertips over the delicate skin on the back of Sherlock's hand. He could feel John's smile reverberate through his body and relax the muscles around him.   
" - Such as pointless astronomy, yes." He bit back, playfully. "Having a mind that is completely organised allows me to focus on things in great detail without bothersome distractions in the way. When I retreat inside my Mind Palace to retrieve selected data or memories, the lack of obstacles allows for clearer thinking and greater detail than a memory relived by an average brain."

John's fingers paused and rested against a protruding vein he had been tracing on Sherlock's hand and realised what that would mean for the detective.   
"So you remember it perfectly?" Sherlock's stomach tied in the same unpleasant knot it had those years ago. The way he had hurt Lucy and was unable to understand why had pained him until he had figured out a way to store her in his vaults and even then she would resurface without warning. She was a problem to be solved at a later date once more information had been gathered. He hadn't returned to her file since its placement in the vault in an attempt to forget her and hope the guilt would go away like any other pesky emotion. In truth, he wasn't to know that he simply wasn't sexually attracted to the opposite sex. He wouldn't come to learn this until College and the uncertainty was rectified. Before that he had felt as if he had led poor Lucy under false pretenses. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and marked her file as solved before returning her to her home comfortably in the vault.

"Yes. But it's fine. I wasn't to know what awaited me. Or whom."

Sherlock had the look on his face that usually came before he disappeared from reality for several hours. Before the detective had the chance, John caught his chin in a gentle hand and dipped into the claim his mouth in a sweet kiss. Turning into the kiss Sherlock felt John’s strong hand smooth down his chest to rub a thumb across a nipple. He moaned into his lover’s mouth and turned to straddle John’s laps, sinking his knees into the mattress either side of the firm thighs. Taking Sherlock into his strong arms John ran his hands down to his detective’s hips and pulled him down, grinding up to meet him.

“Sherlock….” John mumbled into his mouth as Sherlock wrapped his hands around the back of his head, sinking deeper into the kiss. Sherlock was most definitely interested in John. The evidence was currently pressing up between them and left a smear on John’s bare stomach. John slipped his hand down to grip Sherlock’s shaft, circling his thumb over the head in a way that made Sherlock whimper and drop his head on the smaller man’s shoulder. Nibbling along his collarbone and up to his ear John pressed his lips against Sherlock and murmured “You ready to go again?”   
The detective snorted, a smile on his face as he leant back to catch his lover’s eye.   
“Your refractory period is quite commendable, Doctor Watson.”   
“I try my best.” John returned quickly with a wicked grin which detracted from the humble shrug that accompanied it. With one experienced movement John had retrieved the lube bottle from beneath the pillow and flicked the cap off. Squeezing a generous amount into his palm he slathered it over his cock and with slick fingers reached around Sherlock to press his fingertips against his entrance. The muscles yielded almost instantly, still stretched from activities that had taken place mere hours before and John buried two fingers to the first knuckles. Sherlock made incomprehensible noises, rising up on his knees to allow John more access as he scissored his fingers and slipped in a third.

Stilling his fingers John looked into Sherlock’s half lidded eyes and gave the man's cock a firm stroke.   
“Show me what you can do, Sherlock.” His voice was husky but warm, almost immediately Sherlock started moving against the digits buried within him. Rolling his hips languidly he leant forward until the fingertips grazed against his prostate with each lazy thrust. Putting his hands on John’s shoulders to balance he looked down between them at John’s hand, pumping his arousal to match Sherlock’s pace. Watching Sherlock fuck himself on his fingers was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Cheeks flushed, mouth parted and pink tongue darting out to moisten them periodically he could only imagine that Sherlock’s mind was solely focused his fingers. To know that such an intellect was so intent on just that was intoxicating. Removing his fingers he put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and pulled him closer, lining up his arousal with Sherlock’s well prepared arse.   
“Nngh John….” Protesting against the bereft empty feeling he groaned.   
“Come on Sherlock.” John urged him, teasing him as he nudged his cock up against him. With tiny movements of his hips John ran his cock across the tempting muscles, letting a few teasing centimeters push briefly inside before retreating back. Sherlock almost growled with frustration, the angle he was in denied him the access he needed to bear down upon his cruel companion. Adjusting his knees, Sherlock sank down in one slow, fluid movement until he was flush with John’s hips and the smaller man was groaning loud curse words. Relishing the overwhelmingly full sensation he paused before he began to ride John, using his arms for leverage and his hips to guide the hard length against his prostate with each thrust.

After Sherlock had divulged such personal information to him in such an intimate moment John thought it best that Sherlock was in complete control. With the detective on top it was up to Sherlock to control the speed, the depth and ultimately he was in control of their pleasure. This was not a problem at all for John who was more than happy to submit, and he would not trade the beautiful man riding him for any semblance of control. To know that Sherlock was placed in that situation, humiliated and emasculated at such a tender, developmental time in his extraordinary life brought forth a great sadness in him. Of course, every adolescent male goes through negative sexual experiences but for one as socially isolated as Sherlock would have been, John could only imagine how devastating it would have been and how much courage Sherlock would have had to show to bare his emotions again. Perhaps giving Sherlock control in their sexual exploits would help to heal those past unsavoury wounds. Sex is supposed to be pleasurable for all concerned and often, acknowledging these base desires was easier.

John watched his lover's face intently. The flushed cheeks from the exertion and the almost inaudible sigh every time he sank fully bottomed out. John on the other hand was an enthusiastically noisy lover, giving moans of encouragement without factoring in the neighbours or Mrs. Hudson. Each time Sherlock did a particularly sinful roll of his hips he groaned loudly and let his fingertips sink into the flesh on his angular waist. Sherlock dropped a hand to his own cock which John quickly batted away and deftly replaced with his own. Starting a brisk pace he gave firm strokes along Sherlock's length with a slight twist of his wrist as he reached the top. A move he had learnt would elicit a rare abandoned moan from his detective and coupled with the thrusts would take him dangerously close to losing control altogether. A result that John was not totally against as he took in the sight of a relaxed, thoroughly unthinking Sherlock.   
"You're beautiful like this, you know." He groaned as Sherlock bottomed out again and looked up with pupils so blown John could hardly make out their icy blue hue.   
"So I've been told." The dark haired man replied with as much nonchalance as he could manage with a hand working his cock and an undeniably large presence in his arse. John grinned at him and thrust up to meet him as he came down. With a few well timed flicks of his wrist the detective came totally undone with very little warning. His eyes flew open and locked into John's, the doctor's name falling repeatedly from his lips he felt the waves of euphoric bliss consume him. With his come coating John's chest in wet lines he almost collapsed entirely onto his lover, legs trembling as his pulse raced and he fought to get his breath back. The rhythmic clenches of Sherlock around John's cock and the way his detective looked thoroughly well fucked and satiated carried John to his own peak. Holding onto Sherlock's hips he came with a hoarse shout and pulled him down into a warm but sticky embrace.

In an impulsive moment of curiosity Sherlock dipped two fingers into the mess and raised them to John's lips. Without hesitation he yielded and suckled at the digits until they were well and truly clean. The taste was truly unique. Nothing remotely the same as the feminine musk he had been accustomed to but an entirely different experience altogether. However, anything served to him on a Sherlock platter was going to be something entirely delectable.

"Interesting....." Sherlock breathed as he watched John's eyes close reverently, testing it again and achieving the same results. The feeling of a deft tongue tracing the outlines of his fingers and the wet mouth that pulled at them was ridiculously arousing. Sherlock felt his cock twitch sympathetically as John very deliberately opened his eyes and gazed up at him. John kissed Sherlock's fingertips as they withdrew and pulled the detective into an affectionately lazy kiss.

"I'm not one of your experiments, you know." John commented into Sherlock's mouth.   
"Of course not..." Sherlock gave a wry smile and dipped his fingers back in the diminishing smear of cooling liquid. Once again he touched them with a gentle pressure against John's lips and once again the man opened his mouth and explored the unique taste with a quick tongue as his mind tried to liken it with anything else he had ever had. Before John could consume all that lay on Sherlock's digits the detective pulled him into a deep kiss. Sherlock rushing to thrust his tongue upon John in an attempt to taste himself upon his lover's lips.

By the time Sherlock had drawn the kiss to a close even John was left dazed and blinking rapidly. The detective licked his lips and hummed with an agreeable tone. The taste of John complimented his companion's scent. Each individual has a unique scent that is apparent upon any personal items they may own, however, that individual is immune to their own scent as they are accustomed thereby making this scent only recognizable by others. John Watson smelt of tea and gun oil and bizarrely cinnamon despite not generally partaking in baking of any sort. His taste was similar, however, Sherlock's come mixed with John's distinct taste was a wondrous combination and one the detective assured himself he would have again. And it seemed that John was definitely not averse to having another man's emission in his mouth so all parties therein would be satisfied.

"Come on Sherlock. We're filthy, let's go shower. I'm dying for a cuppa." John untangled himself from Sherlock's unconsciously tight embrace and stood naked leaning against the door frame and admiring his dark, curled lover languidly stretched across the tangled sheets. With a wry smile, Sherlock got to his feet in such a graceful manner that could only belie a Holmes man and brushed his damp fingertips against the wet spot on John's chest.

"How long did we say your refractory period was, John?" John's eyes widened as he stared after the insatiable detective with incredulous wonder which turned quickly to lust. Sherlock sidled past and entered the bathroom without looking back at the stunned John. Seconds later John heard the water running and strode to the bathroom shaking his head and lips twitching to a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's fingers danced between the strings of his Stradivarius as he drew out the long slow notes. There were very few 'festive' pieces he would agree to play at all, but John loved this time of year and who was he to deny his doctor of any Christmas merriment. He stood, playing by the window as John set out the last of Mrs Hudson's baked treats along with various  other finger food. The flat had a lingering scent of vanilla and butter pastry from the flat beneath them that melded with the smell of a rosemary roast coming from their own oven that John had forced Sherlock to clean out. He tried to argue the importance of keeping the cultures at exactly 196 degrees celsius for a matter of days as it was important to their growth environment but John wouldn't hear of it. Not at Christmas. Outside, the gentle winds were sweeping up freshly fallen snow and giving them new life. They swirled and paused as if dancing without a care to the streets they used as their stage. They fluttered delicately across the tops of cabs and around street lamps before threatening to lay back in the snow before another winter's gust would drag them to their feet again. Sherlock played them through their waltz.

 

John had finished preparing the kitchen and living room with last minute decorations and serving platters when Mrs Hudson's voice rang out from downstairs.

"Hello, dears! Head straight on up, the fire’s going and the boys are waiting for you."

 

John quickly adjusted his festive jumper before opening the door in anticipation.

"Greg! Molly! Merry Christmas!" He gave Lestrade a strong handshake, hugged Molly and showed them in.

 

Sherlock vaguely tuned in and out to the small talk as he neared the end of his piece. He had heard the arrival of his guests but didn't turn from the window. His focus stolen by the sweeping back and forth of the snow outside. John, he was happy to play for, but when company was over his doctor preferred him to mingle. He wasn't particularly good at it but he gathered practice makes perfect. He could still see the hurt on Molly's face from when he had inadvertently humiliated her last Christmas. He could see it when she'd hand him a, typically useless, coroner's report or when she'd bring him coffee or when he'd ask her for various chemicals in the lab. It was just another example of his failure to read people and he tried to push it aside.

 

His finger chased a vibrato through the last note and brought the instrument down from his shoulder. Inhaling a quick breath, he prepared himself for another chance at gathered social mingling. Typically Sherlock hates the holidays. He'd ignore it all together, much to the satisfaction of his brother, if it weren't for John. There was something about cheap decorations, overcooked roast and wrapped trinkets that made the doctor shine a little brighter through the cold winter months. Though he'd been seeing that resonating glow a little more in the last few months as their relationship unfolded, it warmed Sherlock to see him share that glow with his friends.

 

As the detective turned to gently return his instrument to its case, he made a passing glance at their guests that were conversing amongst themselves and realised one was new. His fingers delicately placed the violin down into its thick bed of velvet and loosened the strings on his bow as he kept his eyes on the new woman standing by his John. He read her before John noticed he'd even finished paying.

 

_Softer skin around jawline; weight loss_

_ Deepened dark circles under eyes _

_Has learned to cover them sufficiently with products; long history of fatigue_

_Altered pigmentation of the skin; previously jaundiced_

_ Slightly red inside of the palm _

_Signs of spider angiomas on visible skin; history of mild cirrhosis, liver damage, previous alcoholism._

 

_ Sandy blonde hair. _

 

"Harriet Watson."

 

Harry turned from her conversation and was met with the calculating eyes of one Sherlock Holmes. John pardoned himself from his discussion with Greg and Molly, leaving them to converse with a newly arrived Mrs Hudson who had arrived with more baked goods. John brought his sister to the detective.

 

"Harry this is Sherlock. Sherlock -"

"Harriet. A pleasure." He took her hand and held it for a moment firmly between his, giving a soft half smile.

"Harry's fine." She returned the expression and scanned Sherlock, making her own attempt to deduce the man who had won the heart of her brother. The detective payed her studying eyes no attention instead turning it to his doctor and asking playfully.

"You didn't tell me your sister would be coming."

"No, I decided to surprise you."

 

John hadn't exactly dreaded introducing Harry to Sherlock. It had nothing to do with their relationship, but more the man himself. She'd been dying to meet the detective she had talked to, only briefly, through John's blog and John knew that his site was by no means the best way to meet the man. He was so awfully passive aggressive towards everyone on that blog and he knew his sister would be no exception. They had to meet face to face without giving Sherlock prior warning. That would only give him reason to avoid it. He was no good at his own family, let alone his doctors.

 

"It's so nice to finally meet you. The great Sherlock Holmes. I've seen you on telly and whatnot but John didn't say how handsome you are in person." She beamed at him, offering a hand to be shook in a warm greeting while her eyes scanned him from curls to slippers.

John dropped his head with a smile, clearing his throat in an attempt to cover a small laugh at his detective’s reaction. Sherlock's brow furrowed and he corrected his posture, searching for the right reply. He took her hand, dwarfed in his own, and shook it firmly.

"Handsome? I.. What do you.. John, you didn't tell her?"

That only made him laugh harder. Harry flashed a bright smile to her brother and then back to the detective.

"It’s alright, love. He doesn't tell me much of anything that goes on. Haven't really spoken to him other than that strange phone call a few months back when he was checking up on me. Apparently the last one went a bit - " And she contorted her face into a sideways, worried expression, as to not say the words 'lying psychopath'  in front of her brother. Sherlock fought back the smile brought on by inappropriately addressed situation and brought his eyes to meet his doctor’s who was still smiling at his sister. He's ok with it. He's moved on.

 

Sherlock excused himself to turn his focus on the buzzing coming from the pocket of his trousers and John brought Harriet back to the attention of the other guests. He caught the Caller ID before answering his phone with disgust.

"What's this? _You_ were the one said no Christmas phone calls."

"And happy holidays to you, little brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way back to the window, peering out for his brothers car or some foot soldier he'd perhaps brought to surveil Baker Street more closely.

"What do you want?"

"It's Christmas, dear brother. Am I not allowed to -"

"No, you hate Christmas."

Without a pause, Mycroft replied,

"I do. With the fire of a thousand burning suns, do I hate this dreadful time of year. There's too much... caroling." He drew out the word as though it was a vulgarity. Sherlock could picture perfectly the eye roll that would have accompanied it and shook his head.

"So why are you calling me, you know we have guests."

"I can see. How is the good doctor's sister? I trust you haven't upset her too badly yet. Though the night is young."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked again, patience beginning to wear thin.

"Come downstairs." Came the less than satisfactory, cryptic response.

"Why?"

His reply was cold and commanding.

"Humour me." 

 

Sherlock shot a glance through the mingling and caught John's attention. He replied with a worrisome expression that curved the corners of his eyes. Sherlock silently reassured him, gesturing that he'd be back in a moment before grabbing his coat and heading downstairs.

 

He opened the wooden door to the gentle, yet frosted breeze he'd been watching from his window and ventured to the side of the road to await the inevitable. He'd barely reached the kerb before the black sedan cruised to a halt beside him. Recognising it instantly, he dove inside seeking its warmth. Sherlock knew full well his brother had no intention of leaving the vehicle, so that meant Sherlock entering it.

"What is so important, I'm busy."

"Yes. With... _festivities_."

"Mycroft.."

"Brother mine," A poisonous smile snaked across Mycroft's features. "I have a gift for you."

 

Sherlock sat back in his seat. A gift. There was no way this could possibly end well. A gift meant the promise of future favours, more than likely, favours Sherlock would have to endure for the good of the nation. They both knew how well those often turned out.

 

"A _gift?_ "

"As it happens, I need a parcel delivered to Eastern Europe and I can't afford the time to take it here myself -"

"That's not a gift."

He threatened to exit the car before Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

"It's a two man job"

"Two man job? Don't you have enough staff to smuggle things around for you"

"It's not smuggling, they are documents of national importance."

"So, still a favour."

Sherlock opened the door, much to the distaste of his older brother who had slid back in his seat in an attempt to shield himself from the wind.

 

"Do close the door, Sherlock, and stop being so dramatic."

Sherlock refused to meet the stare he could feel burning into the side of him and closed the door.

"I need these documents taken to Romania. Specifically to Bucharest, the Capital."

"Why does that require two people?"

 

Mycroft's smile had crept to the corners of his eyes as he exhaled, impatiently before continuing.

"Romania is lovely this time of year. The snow keeps tourists away and one rarely leaves their residence long enough to interact with the local goldfish." His features pulled back and his voice deepened to a directive, commanding tone. "Sherlock. Take the documents to Romania and have your doctor follow you. You may be thankful for the company. I expect it could take weeks to ensure the documents fall to the right hands."

 

Sherlock stared skeptically at his brother.

"Are you - " He cocked his head slightly to the side and his voice curved with upward inflection. " - sending us on a _holiday_? Why?"

"I loathe to repeat myself, Sherlock. I require documents to be hand delivered to -"

"Yes, yes, but why does it require both of us?"

Mycroft paused. Sentiment was a foreign concept to the Holmes brothers, or it had been until John grew on the detective and clung tight like the roots of a plant, or the bacteria on a culture. Mycroft could tell Sherlock had begun to feel things he hadn't before and he could feel it down in the very core of him. Mycroft had never had anyone. He had little to no interest the goldfish that swam at his feet and his family were the only people that were obligated to remain close. Even then he kept them at a distance purely due to the interaction being so very tedious.

 

Their mother had much to answer for. He watched out for his brother, naturally, the way big brothers do. Mycroft missed nothing. He knew there was a change in Sherlock since the doctor had entered the scene. Granted, in some circumstances, it had made his little brother more painful to deal with but it had also made him more determined. After an initial relapse, he seemed to not require any form of narcotic like he used to. Even when Sherlock was clean Mycroft could still see the need behind the ice blue of his investigative eyes. Mycroft was one of the most influential men in the country, perhaps in the northern hemisphere and he could provide his brother with anything. The doctor was good for him, and had replaced his recurrent need with something he'd never experienced. Love. For that Mycroft would owe him a debt. To give Sherlock perhaps the only thing his brother couldn't.

 

"Brother mine, please try to understand that I care for you deeply." Sherlock's brow remained furrowed, attempting to deduce a reasoning behind his brothers act of 'goodwill' Mycroft reached for the inside pocket of his coat and retrieved a thin envelope, handing it immediately to his little brother. "Here are the details of your itinerary and a travel card with more than adequate remuneration for the task I am assigning to you. I've given you three weeks. See that the documents are delivered."

"That'll take a day. Two at John's pace. What am I to do with the remaining two and a half weeks?"

Mycroft smile swept across his face one last time before gesturing for his brother to exit the car.

"I suggest you find some way to keep warm."


	5. Chapter 5

This was ludicrous. With all the resources and services available to Mycroft, why in God's name were Sherlock and John forced to use a shuttle bus.

 

"We've been over this Sherlock," John answered Sherlock's grimaced expression as he loaded their small suitcases under the bus, "Since 9/11 security has been upped everywhere. They don't let anyone just drive out to the FBO. Doesn't matter who they are."

 

Sherlock watched as John loaded the shuttle and closed the compartment. He thought on what he had said and smiled at the imagery.

"Do you mean Mycroft would have to use this ghastly service as well?"

John leant up to gently press his lips to Sherlock's cheek, then led him on board before turning and smiling mischievously.

"Yup." Sherlock had a semi permanent grin plastered across his features imagining his older brother being forced onto a form of public transport. He boarded behind John.

 

The ride didn't take too long at all. Mycroft's black sedan was left back in private parking and it wasn't even two miles before they reached the Fixed Base of Operations where the private jets were manned. It was connected to the busy hub of Heathrow airport but conveniently out of the way of the general public. Sherlock had lit up at the notion of John and himself being alone on an aircraft for several hours and had planned their activities accordingly.

 

Allowing the staff to transfer their luggage to the plane, John and Sherlock exited the vehicle and made their way to the stairs to board. With a quick wave of their identification, they passed the security officer and proceeded into the cabin.

 

John's eagerness was almost palpable. He had never even flown in first class, let alone on a private jet. As soon as he stepped inside his breath escaped him in an impressed whistle. A white leather lounge flushed back against one side of the plane. White leather recliners across the other with burgundy cushions sprinkled across each. The carpet was a thick, luscious cream that shone against the contrast with the deep mahogany lining the walls and the furniture. John had stayed in luxury hotels, albeit rarely, and this flying masterpiece put them all to shame.

 

Sherlock, on the other hand had seen this dreadful sight before. He had come to associate it with the feeling of burden. If he was here, it meant that Mycroft had somehow convinced the detective to run an errand that Mycroft couldn't possibly be seen attending to. Granted he hadn't been on it since he had returned to John and he had hoped he wouldn't need to see it again but given the recent turn of their relationship, Sherlock couldn't be happier and _still_ wore his semi permanent grin but for another reason entirely.

 

John gingerly lowered himself onto one of the recliners, sighing as the comfort engulfed him.

"Why are you smiling? You don't smile this much for anything." He ran his arms down the length of the armrest and back to his lap. "You don't smile _period_ when it's something of Mycroft's doing." He looked up at Sherlock who made every attempt to conceal the darned expression but he had noticed it was difficult to prevent John from reading even what he meticulously hid from ordinary people.

"No reason," he offered pathetically, "Just that I've been looking for an opportunity to perform some research while at flying altitude and now I have both the means and the fortuity to do so."

"You've been on here loads of times. What makes this trip so special?" John found it hard to believe he hadn't tried any of his daft experiments while on here before, even for the sole purpose that it would annoy Mycroft if the furnishings were, in any way, tarnished.

 

"John, you do not listen and you do not observe." Sherlock's smile had finally faded and the smirk that replaced it was positively wicked. He leaned down bringing his arms either side of John's newly discovered armrests and pierced through his eyes with his own. He brought one hand to John's chin, forced John's head sideways and drew his tongue in one long slow stroke from the base of his neck to his earlobe and bit at it. He purred into his doctors ear,

"Now I have you"

 

John released a breath he didn't realise he was holding as a voice came over the intercom.

“Good afternoon gentlemen, my name is Lisa and I’m your chief flight attendant today. On behalf of the Captain and the crew, welcome aboard. This is a non-stop service from Heathrow to Bucharest."

 

John eyed Sherlock as he leant back and away from him, casually making his way to the opposite side of the cabin. He grew hypnotised as he watched his plotting detective slide an indiscreet black bag, one he didn't even notice had come aboard, under his adjoining seat.

 

"Our flight time will be approximately three hours and fifteen minutes. We will be flying at an altitude of 36,000 feet at a ground speed of 460 miles per hour."

 

He found himself in a deep internal debate, utterly paralysed by what the black bag could hold. Research. What possible experiments could be affected by altitude? Was that even a legitimate reason? Sherlock had been on this craft probably more times than he could count. Most, if not, all would surely have been against his will. How would the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes pass the time? How long would it have taken him to come to whatever mischievous conclusion he was plotting now.

 

The voice overhead, however reminded him that they were not, in fact, alone. Surely Sherlock wouldn't. It's ludicrous. They'd be 30,000 bloody feet in the air. No escape for anyone, let alone the poor attendants who would be forced to listen to whatever depraved ideas Sherlock had mapped out.

 

"At this time, make sure your seat backs and are in their full upright position. Also make sure your seat belt is correctly fastened. Also, we advise you that as of this moment, any electronic equipment must be turned off. Thank you.”

 

He watched as Sherlock, playing the diligent passenger, removed his overcoat and placed it by his side, ensured his seat was in position before doing up his seatbelt and leant back, awaiting take-off. As John watched the precise movements of his hands gently wrapping around the belt and the clip, securing them together before resting on either side of the arm rests, he felt the burn that he had grown only too accustomed to. He knew what it was. His detective now had him locked in his sights, like a predator learning its prey. He hesitantly met his gaze, knowing exactly what he was thinking, yet having no clue all at once.

 

The rest of his face, as usual showed the same expressionless mask that he wore anywhere else, be it on a crime scene, the morgue or debating the importance of tobacco ash versus cigar ash over morning tea. That look, though calm and calculating, was one of his scariest features. It meant, typically, that he was deep in thought. With his focus pinned to the doctor, there was only one place that level of concentration was directed.

 

"John."

 

John swallowed thickly and opened parted his lips to make some sort of comment, but nothing came out.

 

"John."

 

He felt his left hand flex against the fabric of the seat, the leather almost like silk against his skin. Clearly there was no expense spared and why would there be. His mind wandered and wondered if he'd be feeling this texture, this strong yet delicate hide pressing into his skin. Somewhere other than his hands perhaps?

 

" _John_."

 

He blinked once, trying to push the thought from his mind and struggling to keep it there as well. John brought his focus to the cause of his sinful thoughts and could only squint slightly, silently begging that was enough. Forming words, let alone whole sentences seemed difficult at the moment.

 

"Seatbelt, John. I didn't think you'd need a simple instruction repeated though you have proven me wrong before. Take this as a first warning." He gestured with features alone to the seat belt hanging by John's thighs.

 

"Right of course." He muttered, fumbling with clumsy hands to latch the belt together. A task that also proves difficult while under the searing gaze of the man in front of him. His list, it seems, would never end.

 

Sherlock stared lazily out a nearby window as the plane began to taxi. Any subtle  attempt John made to draw his attention proved fruitless. If there was anything worse than the burning eyes of the great detective, it was his neglect. He wasn't angry at John. John knew it wasn't anything that simple or pedestrian. It was much worse. So much worse that it made the entire way down the runway and the ascent of take off seem like hours. He wasn't quiet and evasive in an attempt to ignore the doctor or to lose his interest, he was playing a familiar game of "Keep the Doctors Full Attention".

 

Sherlock knew perfectly well that after the little stunt he pulled earlier he would have John's complete and undivided attention. He could almost hear the whimpers that were to come and eagerly waited his highly paid staff to turn off that horrid seat belt sign. They had their instructions, as John would have his. They were to remain out of sight and out of mind for the entire duration of the flight. Naturally they had spoken to Mycroft and, in turn, Mycroft called Sherlock expressing his concern that maybe he thought he held more power than he actually did. Sherlock simply stated his intentions, suggesting he hire a suitable team of cleaners and sanitisers to go through the cabin upon its return to London. Mycroft allowed his request.

 

John too listened impatiently for the announcement

 

“Gentlemen, the Captain has turned off the 'Fasten Seatbelt' sign, and you may now move around the cabin. However we always recommend to keep your restraints or seat belt fastened while you’re seated."

 

Wait, what?

 

"You may also now turn on your electronic devices but please ensure they are in airplane mode if applicable. Now, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. Thank you.”

 

John stared quizzically in the general direction of the speakers. Restraints? Did she actually say that or was he hallucinating? A haunting realisation snuck up behind him and settled out of place in the back of his mind. He hadn't actually seen any of the attending staff since they boarded. Of course Sherlock would have them out of the way. Of course Sherlock would take the precaution and foresight to ensure their next few hours remained uninterrupted. The thought both excited and terrified him. What did Sherlock have up his sleeve?

 

All John could do was watch as Sherlock rose from his seat and swiftly pulled that taunting black bag out and slid it across the floor till it was practically at John's feet. Crippled by shock, lust, want and God only knows what else, he couldn't bring himself to move, let alone reach the bag. His chance had left as soon as it came, however, and Sherlock had crossed the cabin, now standing at John's feet.

 

John tore his attentions from the bag, up the thighs of his detective, across his torso and up to meet the frosted blue behind dilated pupils.

"I picked up some things while you were out the other day. I have the time it takes you to collect groceries down to a science. Most often I can predict what you're going to buy before you do. Though your time is somewhat decreasing, if only by moments which leads me to believe you are slowly figuring out that automated self serve aisle. Good work, John."

As he spoke he slid the zipper open single handedly on the bag at his feet.

"Having studied you through your day to day activities I can also predict your reaction to most circumstances. What you'll say if I offered you tea instead of making it yourself. If I told you in public about some of the depraved acts I've deduced others partake of in private. Though nothing's really private is it? John Watson, I firmly believe I could predict entire conversations with you without ever having started one. In fact I've done so on occasion."

 

Sherlock reached into an inside pocket of the mystery at the base of his chair. Clearly he's organised whatever's in there. John fought hard to keep eye contact with the man above him and not give into the curiosity begging to be sated.

"You already know how I'm going to react? Seems a bit dull doesn't it?" He breathed out what could have passed as a small laugh.

 

The detective pulled back and with him, came a set of leather cuffs, connected by a short silver chain. Sherlock dangled them playfully from the tips of his left two fingers, studying John as his eyes darted from the cuffs and back to Sherlock repeatedly, the growing panic, anticipation and heat clear across his features.

"I know how you'll react to _almost_ everything. Though, to be fair I did ask you on the way home from the Yard and you agreed to it but, to be fair, you weren't paying attention. That and I did say that some research was required. Time is short unfortunately so I'll have to get started."

 

With his right hand, he snaked his fingers around the back of John's neck and pulled him into a deep kiss, John immediately relinquishing dominance and allowing Sherlock to plunge his tongue over his. Sherlock pulled away almost too quickly, leaving John desperate for more.

"John Watson. Do you trust me?"

 

John, breathless and heart pounding in its cage, took one final look at the leather cuffs in the detective's hands before meeting his gaze. That sneaky bastard. He knew he should have asked what that was all about in the cab. John looked deep into the crystal glaciers that held so much want, so much need and so much more. How could he not trust this man with his life, with everything that was his to give. He trusted this man completely. If Sherlock wanted something of his, who was John to deny him of it.

 

"Completely, Sherlock. I trust you completely."

 

Sherlock purred, though it could have been mistaken for a growl, and dove in for another taste of his doctor. Another short yet hungry collision of lips, tongue and teeth and breath before Sherlock pulled open the seat belt and let it return to its place either side of the recliner. He pulled John's woolen jumper over his head and threw it aimlessly towards the other end of the cabin. Between kisses, so followed his shirt and undershirt. Sherlock leant back to stand and drew John up with him by waist of his jeans. With the cuffs still in grasp, he drew Johns hands from around his own waist and tangled in his curls to meet between them. John panted, watching Sherlock's hands wrap the black leather around each wrist before locking them securely into place.

 

John had a brief moment to regain his thoughts while Sherlock led him towards the rather large leather lounge towards the end of the cabin. He watched as he rearranged the burgundy pillows up one end, John couldn't help himself.

"So it was vital we did this at flying altitude?"

 

His question hung unanswered as the detective turned back to face him, eyes filled with desire and clearly flicking through whatever plan he had scheduled. He must have had this planned for a while. Possible even since Mycroft gave them the errand just shy of a month ago. How patient must he had been to not even give a clue to his intentions.

 

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and, somewhat abruptly, turned him and forced him to sit on the lounge behind him. Giving him a silent instruction, one that clearly read 'stay', he brought a length of chain through the mass of burgundy cushions and gestured for John to lay back with his wrists above him. He linked the chain to the one between John's cuffs and secured it appropriately. His doctor wouldn't be going anywhere.

 

"Sherlock?" John fought lightly against his restraints, proving to himself as well as the man now straddling him, that he was, in fact, immobile. He leant his head back into the soft plush of the cushions as Sherlock unbuttoned his jeans.

"It was vital I have you in a semi-public space where there is, quite literally, nowhere for you to go. I know you have this ludicrous issue with - " He waved his hand emphatically " - people. Being around. As they do. They're quite insufferable." Sherlock, stood and moved to the end of the lounge, pulling off John's shoes and sliding John's jeans and pants down throwing them alongside his other clothing. "I organised this little scenario to give you the best of both. The privacy of my undivided attention with outside ears present but instructed not to interfere. I wouldn't have proceeded if I didn't have a hypothetical conversation with you in which you agreed to it."

 

John ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. The nerve. The utter nerve to ask him something without actually asking him and deciding on his answer. Though if he had come out and asked him back at 221B or in some cab on the way to a murder, how would he have answered? He probably would have shied away from it entirely, shutting it down but ultimately regretting never have given it the opportunity. Sherlock wouldn't have proceeded unless he knew John would be comfortable. He said himself, he trusted the man completely. Time to put it to the test.

 

Sherlock, still completely clothed, returned to his position straddling John at the hips. He could feel his doctor pressing hard against him and rewarded him with one very small thrust, earning him a soft moan from parted lips. He traced his fingers up and around the scarf at his neck and gently tugged, letting it fall forward and bundle in his hands. He brought one hand to his doctor's face and cupped it gently over his cheek before leaning forward and pressing into wanting lips, darting his tongue and asserting a dominance there was really no question to him already owning. Pulling back, his hand drew the scarf from between them, meeting the other by John's cheek and pressing it lightly across his eyes.

 

Leaning into the touch, John lifted his head allowing Sherlock to wrap it around him thrice before fastening it at the side. He wasn't even sure if he meant to. Any self control he had a moment ago had long since dissipated. Being under the studying gaze of his detective was one thing, it was another to be placed and positioned within the research itself. Being at the very core of his learning struck at him like lighting and allowed a quiet gasp to sneak out. The fabric across his eyes obscured all vision. He immediately noted his other senses heightening. He could hear his ragged breath in a way that sounded foreign to him. He could smell lingering traces of some disinfectant and the smallest hint of tobacco that had nested between the fibres of Sherlock's scarf. There was something else that he couldn't put his finger on, but it was undoubtedly Sherlock.

 

He barely adjusted to the darkness before a slick, hot mouth surrounded him in one swift motion. John fought against his chains, uselessly as Sherlock pressed John's thighs apart, dragging his tongue up and back down against John's scrotum, He lazily drew one ball into his mouth and sucked gently, curling it around his tongue before switching to the other. In the deep haze, he noted that Sherlock's hands however, were not present. The fear and anticipation barely having time to settle in his stomach before a slick finger pushed through slowly till it found its home at the base of Johns prostate. As the second entered, John bucked his hips, begging for a faster pace but was forced through a steady motion, slow enough that he could stay hovering there for hours.

 

Just as John fell into Sherlock's steady rhythm, the fingers were removed and he was sure he let out some sort of whimper, it was hard to tell. He pressed his head back into the pillows and had a brief reprieve before there was something new at his entrance. He began to pant, heart racing and butterflies dancing as he tried to recognise the foreign object. Neither of them owned anything like this. Did they? Sherlock did say he went shopping.

 

The cool silicone, covered with slick, probed its way slightly inside of John eliciting a deep and throaty moan surrounded by heavy panting. He had only ever had Sherlock inside him and had grown accustomed to the feel and heat of his skin. This was something else entirely. Not so cold that it was uncomfortable, quite the opposite, but just colder than his detective. Sherlock had returned with his tongue tracing circles across his head and licking pre-come hungrily from his slit, serving as a distraction from the intruder pressing inside of him. John let out a long moan and felt his hips surge forward as the plug was pushed further and further inside him, threatening to brush against his sweet spot. Sherlock retracted the it before pushing it in again, deliberately pressing into John's prostate.

 

It was only small, perhaps two fingers wide. His contracting muscles could feel it slowly flare and taper out before easing off and curving into a much smaller stretch. This was designed to stay firmly in place. Sherlock brought his palm over the base of the plug and held it there as John pushed back onto it. Sherlock twisted it and pressed at it, in pulses against John's sensitivity as he sped up with his tongue. His other hand now cupping at this balls and rolling them delicately between skilled fingers. John felt himself climb closer and closer to his release. He stood at the edge of the cliff ready to throw himself over, willingly, but was dragged back as Sherlock removed his mouth and hands entirely. Leaving the toy snug inside him and leaving him with an alien feeling of being filled without the warmth of his detective above or beneath him. He rolled his hips as he rode it back down off the edge.

 

John's heart had its time to return to a, somewhat, stable pace before he felt Sherlock's hands at the tips of his blindfold. Nimble fingers untied the knot and unwrapped it from around the doctor's eyes. He blinked slowly, allowing the light to pour everything back into focus. Sherlock kissed him once more, a chaste kiss that didn't last nearly long enough or have any of the intensity John was craving.

"You're so beautiful, John. I wish you could see yourself."

 

"You didn't give me much choice there, did you?" John's breath had settled back from the edge to the even pace of still being heavily aroused. He knew Sherlock could hear it in his voice and begged silently that he wouldn't have to do that too many more times.

 

"You're right. You should be able to see." A suspicious smile crossed John's lips and before he could enquire or challenge it with another smartass comment, Sherlock brought the scarf back and forced it between John's teeth, wrapping it around his head and tightening it, as he had done before, with a neat knot at the side.

"I want you to see, Captain."

 

John's arousal twitched, and it had not gone unnoticed. Sherlock cocked his head and that devilish grin snaked across his features once more. He purred his approval.

"Oh.. Captain," and again, "I do believe your authority has somewhat slipped. I'm giving the orders now."

 

Sherlock stood in clear sight as he slowly undid the buttons on his suit jacket before removing it and lightly folding it on a nearby recliner. He took his time undoing each of the buttons of his shirt, making John watch in agony as his cock twitched against his belly. Sherlock maintained eye contact for the entirety of his undressing, watching his doctor’s breath pick up again in heavy anticipation.

 

He dove atop his doctor with such a grace that John barely had a moment to register before Sherlock pressed himself against John, rutting in small, shallow thrusts. His doctors muffled moans attempting to break through the makeshift gag. Sherlock leaned slightly to reach for something else in the bag, that bag would be the death of him, to pull out a small bottle of lube and something else concealed too quickly to recognise. His heart skipped thinking of the possibilities, but was somewhat distracted by Sherlock lubing, not his doctors achingly hard flesh, but his own fingers.

"Sorry Captain," Another twitch, "You'll have your turn"

 

Sherlock bent forward putting his weight on one arm by John's cheek and with the other, reached behind him. John pulled again at his bindings, rolling profanities from behind a damp gag. He wouldn't, surely he wouldn't. That bastard. John could pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock's fingers made the breach, if the thrust at his hips was anything to go by. Any buck of the hips Sherlock pulled from himself, involuntary or otherwise, pushed his arousal firmly against John's. The doctor could feel the pre-come as it began to pour from the vision above him as his tip nudged at the lip of John's head. John twisted and heard his own words come out in a muffled stream under the guise of intoxicating moans. The noises coming from Sherlock were a blessing and a curse. They made his skin dance and his heart jump in a hurried and irregular beat. Yet he craved to be the one causing them.

 

Sherlock sat back once he was satisfied with his own preparation. The eyes that met John's weren't their usual crystal blue, they were dilated so deep that they seemed almost entirely black. A fitting image for the the sinful torture he had just put John through. He retrieved the small bottle from beside them and coated John generously and perhaps having his fingers linger longer than they needed to be.

 

He finally rose to his knees and positioned John where he was desperate to enter. Sherlock kept his focus on his doctor's face, studying everything in his eyes while his voice was forced into remission. Well, his words were. As he slowly lowered himself, he ordered John to keep his eyes on him. He could learn so much from his eyes alone. The breathy moans concealed by blue fabric and the heavy swallow in John's throat were just footnotes, albeit perfect, beautiful footnotes that continuously fell short of how John was staring at him now.

 

Once Sherlock had completely lowered himself around John, he finally had the courage to suck in another breath. This new feeling was sensational. Sherlock above him and Sherlock's mischievousness filling him all at once. Still holding his detective's gaze, he couldn't miss the evil grin that crossed it again. Would those ever stop terrifying him and exciting somehow at the same time? He watched, paralysed against the cuffs that bound him as Sherlock reached again for the almost forgotten object at his side. He brought it in clear view between them and allowed John the appropriate time to figure what the small black object could be before proceeding. Once Sherlock recognised that flash behind his eyes, he pressed the button.

 

The silicon burst to life inside of John. Deep throbbing pulses pressing against the gland Sherlock had taken the time to position it by. Sherlock remained perfectly still, watching in awe as his doctor adjusted to the feel. Soft moans escaped the detective, caused somewhat by a residual vibration he could feel emanating from John inside him, but caused mostly by the intoxicating view of the man unravelling and squirming beneath him. Once he was sure his doctor had grown accustomed to the new sensation, He leant forward slightly and untied the scarf from around his mouth.

 

Tossing the damp fabric uselessly to the side, he began to rise and lower himself ever so slightly over his doctor.

"I was ... going to keep that in..but I..Nghh.. believe I've gathered sufficient data." He breathed heavily as he began to pick up the pace. "I want to hear you beg for it, John."

 

John wanted to snap something back at him but his words had all melted away. What formed in his throat were desperate cries and pleas that matched his bucking hips, begging his detective to go faster.

 

"I want to hear you scream. I want you .. to hold on though. Oh John.. Don't come until I say so. "

 

Sherlock rested his palms on John's chest, tracing his sunburst under a thumb as he quickened. John brought his knees up, feet resting flat against the lounge and began driving mercilessly into his detective, as best he could without the use of his hands.

"Oh god.. Sherlock.."

 

He pulled and fought hard against the chains, but to no avail. Sherlock cried out, reaching again for that damn remote and kicked it up a notch. The pulses within him grew stronger and, with its new position within him, pressed firmly against his prostate.

 

"Jesus.. Sherlock.. Please.. I'm gonna...Please! Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock brought his gaze back to John and stared at him with black eyes, he growled,

"Come for me Captain."

 

John rode helplessly along waves bliss. His vision blurred and hips spasming as Sherlock rode down onto him, bringing out his own release in streams across his belly and chest. Sherlock reached down and slowed the pulses till they ceased and sat back, breathing in the beauty of the man beneath him. His hand slid to his belly and lazily through the mess and brought them to John's lips. He watched as his doctor devoured them, tongue flicking between and over sensitive fingertips. Sherlock sighed as his pulse and breathing slowly returned to normal.

 

Slowly easing himself off from his doctor, Sherlock leant forwards one last time and detached the chain from between John's cuffs, then removed the cuffs from John's wrists. He barely had time to place them on the floor beside them before John grabbed him at the cheekbones and drew him in for a deep, slow dance between lips and tongues. Not the battle they had shared earlier, a truce sealed with devotion, trust and lingering ecstasy.

 

Sherlock could taste every molecule that made up his John. The faint hints of tea and drifting scents that blended perfectly with the fresh taste of Sherlock on his tongue. It was a blend that Sherlock grew entranced by and felt a growing need to map out every genome that made up his various tastes and smells. Too soon had his doctor pulled back and met him with his, now chestnut eyes flecked with green and Sherlock melted into the smile that was now on both their faces. John rubbed his thumb across his cheek.

"I think I'm going to like this holiday."

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Bucharest in the winter was breathtaking. It shared much of the same charm that London had at the same time of year but something entirely different. Something John couldn't quite explain. Perhaps it was the old domed buildings that wore the fresh snow like a thin cloak, covered, but with the soft browns and marble peeking through. Perhaps it was the white noise of a foreign language muffled by falling snow that made the place somehow beautifully alien. Perhaps it was the simple things. The crystal that formed on the stone of the Arcul de Triumf, the haunting winter wonderland of the Herastrau Park or the frosted treeline by the Dambovita River.

 

John had convinced the cab driver to take a detour through and past some of the monuments on the way to their hotel, much to Sherlock's' vexation. He mentally mapped out where he'd want to come back to and made note of restaurants that looked particularly interesting. He was genuinely excited to breathe in the foreign air. A foreign air that wasn't toxic with war and blood.

 

Upon arrival at the Carol Parc Hotel, John left Sherlock to check them in, flipping through pamphlets and brochures on a nearby stand. Naturally Mycroft would have everything paid for and had made the staff aware of any frivoloties Sherlock may pester them with. There would be no doubt that Sherlock would make this holiday hard on his brother, despite the 'best intentions'. It was Sherlock's way of saying 'Thank you.'

 

Their room was something taken straight from the Diogenes Club itself. If John didn't know any better, and he almost didn't, he could have sworn Mycroft designed this room to combine the royalty of his own residence with the culture of Romania. It was a fair contrast to the white leather and modern regal of the private airplane.

 

Golden drapes flowed from high windows and ran like thick honey onto the floor. The amber patterns matching the mahogany chairs and the lush bedspread in an adjoining room. Long sofas scattered the large room with the same pattern, but in a deep ruby which matched the wood and the amber perfectly. The golds and blood reds throughout the room radiated warmth which was a perfect contrast to the chill outside. The stone white fireplace at the far edge of the room would help those colours glow in the dark of the night and John found himself very excited for the next few weeks. Yes. John Watson was going to enjoy this holiday.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

The coming weeks with Sherlock had been complete and utter bliss. That was including the bitter snowstorm that swept through a few days after their arrival which more or less put a halt on any real sightseeing that wasn't purely from their apartment windows.  

 

Sherlock had insisted they get Mycroft's pointless errands out of the way almost immediately after check in so neither of them would have to think about it for the duration of their time away. John was quick to agree with the added notion of seeing the major sights as soon as possible, that left them two weeks of being content with being snowed into their apartment.

 

It led to head spinning morning orgasms with John arching his back off the mattress, fists grasping at sheets, a result of Sherlock's hunger and brutal assault on his prostate. It led to them being built slowly and gently as they rocked on the lounge by the fireplace, hands between them, foreheads touched and mouths so close they had no choice but to breathe each other in. And it led to passionate bursts under the water of the shower, Sherlock pressed against the cool tiles as John nibbled on the back of his neck and thrust deep, stroking Sherlock in a constant rhythm.

 

More importantly, it led to those leather cuffs again, the plug Sherlock had brought on the plane and, in turn, John learned the other contents of that merciless black bag. Sherlock had been determined to unlock each and every sound John was like to give him and insisted on drawing them out of him in whatever way he could. He'd drop wax across his chest and nipples made sensitive from relentless clamps. He'd strike at the meat of his arse with an open palm as he thrust into him, John holding himself up on his knees, wrists bound together and mouth gagged. And he'd use his scarf to slow the flow of oxygen from his lungs just before John would climax. The world slowly beginning to fade, then pour back into focus and Sherlock would comfort him. Even if he hadn't finished himself, he'd position John's head in his lap and stroke his hair till the world came back to John and John came back to him.

 

John had no complaints about Sherlock's new experiments. Granted, he never saw himself as the 'kinky' type, but damned if he wasn't going to say no to something till he at least tried it. After what Sherlock had eased him into on the plane, John found the anticipation of his upcoming orgasms a constant thrill. Not knowing what Sherlock was planning was a major part of it. Sherlock had told John he's been mapping him. Studying exactly what pressure, what pleasure or pain and at what intensity could trigger what reaction. He even made a bloody spreadsheet with a rating system. Naturally John wasn't allowed to see it. That'd ruin the surprises.

 

\----------------------------------

 

With only a few days until they had to leave, John had discovered a small ache in the back of his mind. Nothing really worth his attention. He boiled it down to not being able to leave the hotel due to the blizzard that was, miraculously, dissipating in time for them to go home. As he absently pressed a finger into the base at the back of his skull, he smiled and thought to himself, _Well, that's it. Cabin fever. I'm a lost cause._

He fumbled through their bags that were strewn across the apartment. Heaven forbid Sherlock actually put clothes in drawers or on hangers. He claimed it as a waste of time as they'd only end up back in the case anyway. He'd rather be focusing on more important things. With a guttural growl and needy fingers, that ended John's search for an aspirin.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

That was it. They were leaving tomorrow. Some ungodly hour of the morning to ensure Mycroft had the appropriate papers returned to him when they were needed. They were, apparently pushing it, when it came to their time here. Mycroft had stretched their limits and John was thankful. He had spent, essentially, the entire three weeks by Sherlocks side. It was the most he'd asked for in a long time and he couldn't be happier.

 

That was a lie. The dull ache in the back of his head remained and he'd rather be rid of that. The last few days he'd tried every easily accessible cure for it but it still sat at the base of his skull and throbbed against the inside of his brain. It wasn't too painful a sensation. Barely painful at all. It was more like a presence that refused to leave. Maybe it really was cabin fever. Or a mild variation thereof. At least when he was in Afghanistan they'd be constantly moving or if they were within close quarters for a long duration..

 

His thought came to an end. It can't be cabin fever. He'd been held up in worse conditions far longer than this and never had this throb before. He shuffled against the luxurious sheets and felt Sherlock move next to him. John thought over the last few weeks as he watched his detective rustle under the sheets. He'd been the only person he'd been in contact with for most of the time, save for the room service staff that brought each meal. Sherlock was his entire world and he must have been so utterly blind not to have noticed months or years ago. Sherlock was all he needed. He wriggled closer and rest a hand over the detectives waist, drawing him back to him and lazily grinding against him. They did only have one last day, after all.

 

\--------------------------------

 

The flight home hadn't been nearly as eventful as the flight out. It was surprisingly exhausting spending the better part of three weeks alone with a brilliant mastermind with nothing to entertain him but sex. Granted, Sherlock had attempted to educate him as they lay bundled within the expensive sheets discussing chemical reactions and cause and effect. John was only forced to silence him when he started describing the processes of human decay at length and seeing as John was well educated enough, he had to cut him off with a hungry kiss. John had earned Sherlock's scarf in his mouth as punishment for interrupting his 'teachings', but that didn't mean he regretted it in the slightest.

 

Sherlock was somehow passed out in the recliner by John's side. Given how little his detective slept, he couldn't be convinced to wake him and return some of the ministrations Sherlock had given to him on the way over. That didn't mean he wasn't tempted. John had very much been on the receiving end of Sherlock's 'research' and that aspect alone had been dangerously intoxicating.

 

The only thing that made it better was seeing the devilish look in those crystal blue eyes as John would beg him for mercy, or as he muffled desperate whispers through dampened cloth. Seeing John come undone seemed to be the greatest thing in the world to Sherlock and it made John all the more excited to give it to him. Sherlock knew how to take care of John. He seemed to know exactly how far to push his limits without throwing him to the void entirely. He made John feel safe and protected even as he fought against cuffs or verged on tears as he begged Sherlock to give him what he needed. Sherlock would give him what needed it and when he needed it. Nothing more, and never before its time.

 

So John took the few hours to enjoy the silence. Enjoy the rest that had somewhat forcefully come upon his detective. Enjoy the lingering sense of security he had being at Sherlocks side, even if he was dead to the world. He started to enjoy, even, that the pressure building in the back of his head was somewhat starting to fade. Perhaps it was the altitude.

 

\-------------------------------

 

John turned around from the counter with his mug of freshly brewed tea to find Sherlock less than half a foot from him. He managed to save the tea from spilling over the floor with an automatic reflex and tilted his head at Sherlock giving him an annoyed look.

 

“You know, I think we need to put a bell on you. What were you doing anyway?” He sidestepped the looming detective and made his way to his armchair and long neglected novel. Placing his hot mug on the side table John straightened the coaster and picked up his novel, thumbing through the pages until he found the dog eared page. He managed to read the first two sentences of the page, realising quickly that he did not remember a single event that it referred to before Sherlock finally replied.

 

“Just seeing what you’re doing. Any new cases?” As John sank into it’s comforting cushions, Sherlock perched himself on the arm of the old chair and peered over assessing his choice in novel. John rolled his eyes, and shoved the book down the side of the chair realising he would need to start anew and looked up expectantly at his companion.

 

“You know how to use the laptop, why don’t you go check the blog yourself?” John suggested somewhat hopefully but the detective merely shrugged and remained balanced next to John, staring at his lab equipment almost wistfully. John absently reached back and dug two fingers into the base of his skull, trying to alleviate the pressure that had begun to steadily build since coming back from Romania. He spoke again with slow increasing desperation for Sherlock to stop breathing down his neck

 

“You haven’t created some new mega virus for a while? Why don’t you go and dissect a few eyeballs or cure cancer or something?” John knew that a restless Sherlock was more often than not a destructive Sherlock and wanted to divert his attention to something before they reached the ‘holes in the wall’ stage. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the words ‘mega virus’.

 

“Honestly John, you’re so dramatic. I warned you that it was going to be contagious but you still insisted on opening the fridge. That can hardly be blamed on me. Besides, you’re always going on about ‘unsanitary’ objects being stored in your food preparation area so the fridge is empty.” John shot him a puzzled look, he supposed he should be feeling gratitude but it was an uneasy feeling that settled in his stomach. Sherlock compromised for no one.

 

“You really did that for me? Emptied the fridge?” He repeated, almost incredulously and frowning somewhat suspiciously.

 

“Don’t make me repeat myself John, it’s terribly tedious.” Sherlock sidled his way to sit between John’s knees, leaning against the seat of the chair and drawing his legs to his chest. John stared down at the detective with an air of annoyance. He hadn’t really noticed until then that his companion was never more than a few feet from him at any one time. From when he first woke up next to Sherlock, to the breakfast table where instead of sitting opposite each other Sherlock had moved his chair so their knees touched. Even the bathroom was no longer a place of privacy, as soon as Sherlock’s ears heard running water of the shower he would slip in beside a wet John and wash with him. Slowly, it was starting to drive even John, who had lived like a sardine in barracks with dozens of other soldiers in sweltering heat, slowly mad.

 

“I’m going to go and get some food to put in that clean fridge.” John suddenly exclaimed, he was overcome with a desire to leave the flat. The fleur de lis patterned walls seemed to be closer together than John remembered and he realised he couldn't remember the last time he had left the flat since they had sunk into a domestic routine.

 

“I’ll come-” Sherlock offered, beginning to get to his feet but John shook his head and disagreed a bit more forcefully than he had intended.

 

“No! I mean, no, it’ll just be easier if I do it alone. We know what you’re like with the general public.” John slipped out of his chair sideways and went straight to the coat rack to shrug on his jacket. Sherlock stared after him as John pocketed his wallet and gave him a lopsided smile.

 

“Back soon, don’t blow anything up while I’m gone.” And without a second glance back he disappeared down the stairs and shut the front door with a relieved sigh on his way out.

 

Sherlock stared at the doorway with confusion and hurt. In order to have a decent, human relationship it was necessary for all parties to sacrifice their time and energies into their partner. To ensure that John felt like he was dating the average man, Sherlock had been foregoing his usual activities in favour of being physically close to John at all times. It was utterly maddening for the genius detective to be involved in something so...domestic but John was invaluable to him. However, here was John striding out without so much as a backward glance without him. How intriguing and unpredictable relationships could be.

 

\-------------------

 

John browsed lazily through the shelves. He knew perfectly well that both he and Sherlock had enough deodorant at home, though he had never noticed the sheer volume of various scents and brands his local supermarket stocked. Even solely in the 'men's' section there were so many to choose from. Honestly, what is 'Africa' supposed to smell like? What does 'Anarchy' smell like? Who even thought up the ludicrous names for these scents?

 

He stood in the health and beauty department, possibly far longer than he should have, opening lids to various aerosol and roll on deodorants and smelling the fragrance of each. What had his one at home smelled like? He had forgotten now. He searched through the array of colours and labels till he found his brand and gently inhaled that one again. That scent was foreign to him now, as if his sense of smell had been overstimulated and now most of the deodorants seemed the same.

 

Having decided he couldn't possibly purchase one now that his nose had betrayed him, he would come back later to make a final choice. John retrieved his small basket of groceries from the floor beside him and proceeded down the aisle. He had never quite enjoyed grocery shopping as much as he had recently and was unaware of the reason why. He typically got into some argument with Sherlock. Something as to why he has poured the last of the milk into a beaker and placed a human finger in it, leaving it at room temperature. That often left John to abandon the boiled kettle and the lonely teabag sitting in a mug as he went to the corner store to buy some more.

 

Though lately he seemed to cherish his brief moments at the store. He couldn't place his finger on why but it had grown so much more appealing. Browsing through the shelves, taking the time to note what brands and variations they had on bathroom lotions, tinned foods, pre packaged meals. The latter was particularly interesting seeing as Sherlock wouldn't eat that much and after a long day on a case, or a long night with Sherlock, John simply didn't have the energy to cook something substantial, so he often returned to toast. An easy fix. But he hadn't realised how appetising pre-cooked meals could be. The meals he had in Afghanistan were obviously nothing to compare to but his subconscious had assumed all instant meals would be similar. These meals, however, looked very flavoursome.

 

It wasn't until he paid the cashier, God knows he wasn't going to get into another row that sodding chip and pin self service woman again, that he realised the time. He had gone out for milk and come out an hour and a half later with only the milk, three frozen dinners and a bag of crisps. What on earth had he done for all that time? And more pressingly, how was he to explain his absence to Sherlock upon his return. He hurried down the busy street of London, narrowly avoiding bumping into passing pedestrians in a frantic effort to return home, barely noting the haunting pressure in his head had drastically decreased since having left the house.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Sherlock lifted the police tape, allowing John to pass underneath before following close behind all swirling coat and excitement. Once Sherlock had heard there were multiple deaths in the one suburban home, you'd swear he thought it was Christmas. They headed up the driveway of the rather luxurious manor, past the finely trimmed hedges and pompously extravagant water feature to find Lestrade waiting for them at the front door.

"Careful John, It's not a pretty sight in there." He didn't even glance up from his notebook. The sight inside had clearly shaken him.

" _John?_ Why _careful, John_? Why not 'careful Sherlock?" Lestrade tore his eyes fastened deeply in his notebook and met the John's offended expression.

"Because he doesn’t see the people, he sees the facts. That's why I -" He let out an exasperated sigh, not wanting to admit it but it was true. "We need you." Sherlock barely fought to contain the grin working its way across his features in response to John’s incredulous look. He turned to John and winked, loving that he could make Lestrade admit their need for them so easily. The impish grin on Sherlock’s face dissolved his annoyance at being called out despite his experiences in Afghanistan and John couldn’t help but grin back.

 

Lestrade led them both inside, through the foyer and into the dining hall. There had clearly been some sort of event. These rich types would throw parties and galas the way college students would, often and purely for the sake of it. The elaborate manor had been decorated in an elegant fashion with colour coordinated decorations and luxury ornaments that morbidly contrasted the seven bodies dead across the floor. They could see a number of police officers interviewing staff of varying levels; wait staff, chefs and cleaners in the adjoining room.

 

"We're working on the security footage now. Should have it all within a few hours, though this room isn't well covered. I doubt we'll get anything helpful. The staff didn't see anything suspicious but they're still giving their statements."

 

"Good, Thank you Lestrade. That's enough from you." Sherlock turned to his companion with a quick step and quickly exclaimed, "John I want you to take point."

John stared at him blankly for a moment. Surely he wasn't serious. He had helped in cases before, established causes of death and minor details but this was ludicrous. Seven bodies. How was he expected to solve that?

"Um.. yeah.. alright. I’ll try." With a quick tense of his left hand, he proceeded to investigate each of the bodies.

 

There had been nothing spectacular about them individually. None of them had any physical wounds, no blood near the bodies or anywhere really. They had each had died of asphyxiation, possibly. Passed out and choked on their own vomit. Too common among them for it to be a seizure, so that meant drugs, probably. He didn't even sound convincing to himself, how was he going to convince Sherlock, the great detective? He could feel the burn from Sherlock’s eyes study him as he made every move, every step, every observation. He felt his knees go weak as they wanted to crumble under the pressure. Sherlock hadn't asked for his opinion in a case for god knows how long, let alone leave him to take point.

 

"I'd say they were all drugged. Must have been something in the food or drink given the staff are still unaffected." He trailed off quietly as he headed to the banquet table to examine the various eu dourves, bowls of punch and fruit platters that were delicately scattered across the oversized serving table. "Nothing looks like it was added out here so if it were drugs it would have been added by the cooks." He turned to Sherlock seeking approval but was only met with a blank stare. Sherlock had his hands folded together and behind his back, giving away nothing. God knows what he was thinking, who ever knew?

 

After a silence that lasted for a moment too long, Sherlock finally asked

"When did they die?" John gave a quick glance over at the bodies before shakily replying,

"Last night."

"Yes, but when?"

 

John leant back down to the nearest body, a young male who was reasonably attractive enough, or had been. All of the victims had been somewhat attractive, but that was the privilege of money. Anyone could buy their way into attractiveness. He gently pressed at each of the muscles on the body's face and made his way down to the neck and to the torso. He then pressed his fingers to the back of the victim's neck, hoping for some general idea at a temperature. He stood.

"They look to have been dead between three to four hours. Their temperature hasn't dropped that dramatically and rigor mortis has only really just started. Couldn't have been long at all.”

"What does that tell us?" Sherlock looked to John expectantly. Surely he wasn't to have a theory already based on the time of death alone? _Think, John, Think!_ He checked his watch.

"That puts their death at around three or four this morning?" More John. A slow realisation began to form. "Which means they died close to the end of the party. People may have left already."

"And?" John turned to Lestrade.

"Have any other deaths come up this morning? Any of them similar to this one?"

 

Lestrade looked to Sherlock almost, as if, for approval before continuing.

"No other deaths. Well not that could be related to this."

 

John couldn't piece it together. Why only poison a few guests at a party, and how would you know for sure who would be there at the end of it? He made his way back to the serving tables and gently sniffed and inspected each of the plates and bowls. Surely it had to be the food? How else could the guests have ingested it and not the staff? Though, then, everyone at the event would have consumed the same food, surely? They wouldn't have waited for everyone to leave before bringing out fresh platters.

 

He turned back to Sherlock.

"Can we look at the surveillance footage? What did the staff say?"

Lestrade opened his mouth but was cut off by Sherlock raising his hand mere inches in front of it.

"You can see the staff from here. Look at them. Really look, John" So he did. He saw upset women blubbering words to officers. He saw chefs desperately trying to explain. He could see what he was expected to see and nothing more. It hadn't surprised him that Sherlock had no doubt already solved this one as soon as they entered the room.

"I can't.. I don't know. I'm sorry."

 

Sherlock was becoming increasingly more irritated. John often felt stupid next to him but today, being put on the spot in front of Lestrade and half of Scotland Yard had left him more useless than usual, it would seem. He could feel the disappointment bubble in the pit of his gut and waited for the string of 'obvious observations' to pour from the mouth of brilliance.

 

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and walked past John towards the serving table. He leant forward, closely inspecting each plate, dish, utensil and glass, he made his way down the arrangements. He paused briefly at one of the bowls, gave it a quick sniff and stood straight. He turned and looked across to the adjoining room and darted his eyes between the men and women for just a moment before heading back over to John. He grabbed him by the shoulders as he spoke with quick and angered words.

"John you need to really look. This is possibly the easiest case that Lestrade has called us in for. The fact that he hasn't solved it himself is a mystery, surely even he can't be that slow." John caught Greg's arm dropping to his sides out of the corners of his peripheral and saw his eyes rolling as he let out a disgruntled groan between gritted teeth. "This is a case with training wheels, John!"

 

John took in a deep breath and scanned the room again. Poison, though only a few of the late nighters affected. The staff have no idea. John had no idea.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock straightened his back and lowered his arms. After a brief moment, he stormed across the room to where the staff had been interviewed. John looked towards Lestrade who was, seemingly, as confused as John was. They hurried to catch up to him.

 

"You." Sherlock pointed at one of the staff members wearing a white shirt with a black vest. "You were on the bar tonight?" John and Lestrade had caught up in time to ask the questioning officers to step down and allow Sherlock to continue his query. "Given the marks on your hands and the pen in your vest pocket I’d say you were but clearly you haven’t been working as a bar attendant for long, you’re far too young and the tip jar barely has anything in it so it’s either bad or just new. The cocktail menu is directly next to the register looking rather well used, I’d say you’re new. New bartender at an event like this one?” He laughed “Tell me, were they underpaying you or did you just not like them?"

"I'm sorry?" The young blonde man gave a completely perplexed expression to the questions being laid before him.

"Please don't bother. I find myself suddenly lacking patience for stupidity. It seems I'm surrounded by it. Did you think it would melt faster? If you had put the punch out a little earlier in the evening you would have had quite a few more bodies which I suspect is what you wanted but when you put it out, you didn't factor in time for the ice to _melt_ , therefore giving most of the guests time to grow bored and leave. That's what they do isn't it? Get bored. I don't particularly care _why_ you did it. That's my detective inspector’s area. All I know is you did. Lestrade, arrest that man. Only call us if something _interesting_ requires our attention."

 

With a dramatic flourish, Sherlock twirled in his coat and head for the door. He pulled his phone from his pocket and began immediately checking the blog for something that wasn’t a complete waste of his time.

 

John, with the hurt physically readable on his face, gave a quick nod to Lestrade as if it could have made up for Sherlock’s outburst. John, again, made into a brisk walk to catch up with him. He closed in just as Sherlock had crossed the police tape.  
“Sherlock.” The detective ignored him. He reached under the tape and threw it back behind him. “Sherlock!” He continued walking. John pursed his lips, grabbed his coat sleeve and turned him around to face him. “What the hell was that?”

“John if you’re not even going to try then I honestly don’t know why I bother.”

 

“Bother? You didn’t even -” Sherlock just stood there, clearly waiting on some form of explanation, as if he was the inconvenienced party. “You just threw me into the deep end! You know full well I don’t pick on things like you, how the hell was I supposed to know it was in the ice?” Surely there was more to this. He knew of the great Sherlock temper tantrums but they typically had more behind it. He hadn’t lashed out in months. Something must be fueling this.

 

“If you’re not even trying to work with me, why do I even bring you along?” Sherlock could see John’s face shift into something not quite his usual expression. He had been so frustrated, Lestrade had promised him a half decent case. Seven bodies in an upper class London home. It screamed of potential. It wasn’t until he had actually arrived and saw the bar attendant that he knew almost instantly and felt the fire in his chest start to light. He was furious at Lestrade and grew even angrier with John. How could he not see what was so clearly in front of him! Had he taught him nothing?

 

Sherlock turned from John to hail a cab. He needed to return to his mind palace and sort through some files. His judgement was obviously clouded and he was no good to anyone like this. Perhaps if he took a solitary cab home he would feel better.

 

“Sherlock did I do something?” John’s pain was tangible. It welled up in the back of his throat and clung thick to his words. He had upset Sherlock somehow. Was it purely that he wasn’t smart enough? He stood like a lost child behind Sherlock, waiting for him to give him something, anything to indicate what he had done.

 

The black cab pulled up to the curb. Sherlock pulled the door open and slid inside. John stepped forward to join him. Perhaps this was a matter best settled at home. He maneuvered into the car beside Sherlock and pulled in close. He knew his detective liked to be close to him when he was upset. But what about when he was upset with him? Most couples would surely talk about this like rational adults but god only knew what was going on in Sherlock’s head.

 

Sherlock looked across the cab and felt his irritation dramatically increase. How was he to get back to his mind palace with John watching and judging his every move? He no doubt wished to further the conversation which had grown tiresome, and he simply wished it would all go away. He sat silently in the cab on the way home, desperately seeking the companionship of his Stradivarius.

 

\----------------------

 

Lestrade stared incredulously at the pair’s backs as they strode off to the car, John struggling to catch up to the long legged detective. Poor John, he honestly didn’t know how he kept his fist away from Sherlock’s face twenty-four hours a day. Of course, they were all used to Sherlock’s less than savoury personality, particularly when it was aimed at their supposed stupidity but in all the time Greg had worked along side the man he had never seen him direct such a personal attack at John. Not his loyal John, who protected him from the numerous people Sherlock rubbed up the wrong way and put up with detective calling him out on his lack of observation skills. But this, this was different. The look on John’s face as he gave him that lopsided, strained smile and ran away still stuck in his mind.

 

The detective inspector waited until the case no longer required his presence before climbing into a cab, his mind made up to sort the odd pair out. He couldn’t have them turning up to crime scenes like that, they barely functioned as the usually well-oiled team he had come to know them as. Momentarily entertaining the notion of calling before he walked up he decided against it, in their current moods they were less than likely to be civil to a phone call.

“Thanks mate.” He gave the old cabby a note and let him keep the meagre change, eager to get out and attempt to talk some sense into the men-acting-like-boys.

 

As he approached the familiar door to 221b he heard a glass smash and angry, raised voices. With a surge of adrenaline he drew his gun from its holster beneath his arm and ran up the stairs, two at a time.

 

“John!? Sherlock?” Lestrade yelled up the stairs to the sounds of wood splintering and more angry yelling. He could only imagine what degenerate had made its way into the flat, Sherlock was definitely not short of enemies who wished the pair harm. Leaning his weight back he kicked the door open and ran inside only to instinctively duck as a crystal vase flew at his face and shattered in the hallway behind him. He knelt on one knee, gun steadily pointing between a red faced Sherlock and a flushed John, both men looking at him like deer in headlights.

 

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Both men glared at him silently. Sherlock with a paperweight clutched in his hand so tight his knuckles were white and John’s hand curled in his fists by his side. However, the experienced detective inspector wasn’t going to buckle under the weight of two bickering man-childs and stood up. “Someone had better bloody well talk or I’ll arrest you both for disturbing the peace.” Holstering his weapon and safely tucking it beneath his jacket he put his hand on his hips as though trying to deal with rebellious teenagers and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

 

John sighed and rubbed at his temples.

“Greg, now isn’t a good time-”

“Oh no, John, now is a perfect time!” Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically. “Please Graham, do help us sort out our personal issues, you who have no business interfering or bursting in uninvited.” Sherlock drummed his hands on the back of a dining chair which had a leg sticking out at a right angle, clearly the source of the wood splintering sound.

 

“Oh shut up Sherlock! John, tell me what's going on, now!” Greg snapped. His face was so serious and his tone so authoritative that it almost triggered a reflexive military response. John looked down at his feet, left hand clenching and twitching as he sucked in a deep breath to quell the anger and answered as calmly as he was able while avoiding eye contact with anything but his shoes.

 

“Look Greg, sorry but it’s fine. Really. We need to sort this out on our own.” He felt the angry flush slowly replaced by the warmer red of embarrassment as he surveyed the damage from Sherlock’s temper. Greg looked behind him at the shards of glass that littered the floor and then to the living room with its broken furniture. “We got a little… carried away.”

 

“Yeah, no. _This_ isn’t okay.” He gestured to the destruction and shook his head. “What the hell is going on in here? Mrs. Hudson will have a fit when she sees this.”

 

“I fail to see how this is any business of yours, detective.” Sherlock snarled, tossing the paper weight up in his hand and catching it repeatedly.

 

“Look, I came because I care about you two. You’ve been acting funny when I call you out lately and now look at you! Throwing things? Really?” He stared at them with a disappointed face and shook his head. “Sit down there, and you, in your chair. Come on, let’s go I’ve got other stuff to do tonight other than babysit you two.”

 

To Lestrade’s surprise both men flopped down into their appointed chairs, John sitting up straight and hands, though still tense, resting in his lap. Sherlock with his knees folded up to his chest and arms wrapped around them defensively. The detective inspector picked up an undamaged kitchen chair and placed it down a few feet away between them.

 

“So, Sherlock, why were you so hard on John today?” He directed his question to the sulking man who stared out from beneath the dark curls that obscured his face.

 

“I wasn’t hard on him any more than usual. He needs to learn not just to see but to observe!” He cried out petulantly, pouting at Lestrade while avoiding looking at John entirely.

 

“Now that’s not entirely the truth, Sherlock. I know your ‘usual’ and that wasn’t it. You were being an utter dick!” Taking advantage of Sherlock’s sulky silence Lestrade pushed on, “You know damn well that people who aren’t you or your brother don’t see things the way you do. Call us stupid all you like, John is the only reason you’re tolerated on crime scenes at all!” Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut, shooting furtive glances at John to see if he was in agreement.

“And John….” He turned to the smaller man surreptitiously avoiding his gaze. “Since when have you lost your backbone? You are a veteran of A-fucking-ghanistan and you can’t even stand up to one pompous arse? You used to pull him into line and now its like you have no spine and have just given up.”

 

John knew exactly what had happened though he had never thought himself able to put it into words until now. He knew this would upset Sherlock and God, that was the last thing he wanted. He'd opened up so much recently about his past lovers and John was determined to be nothing like them. He couldn't hurt Sherlock the way they had. It's not as if he didn't love the man. He just found himself, perhaps, overly protective of the detective's feelings since his confessions. It needed to be said, however, so they could move past this childish quarrel.

 

“He’s just... worn me down…” John murmured, downcast and quiet.

 

The room stilled as Sherlock and Lestrade stared at him.

 

“Worn you down…” Sherlock repeated in a whisper. He couldn’t believe it.

 

“No, I mean.. Sherlock, I love your brilliant mind. The way you can deduce the most excellent facts from the most trivial of observations. How your mind never stops ticking over for a second, always whirring and thinking and…” John stopped, still unable to face the other men. He always found this sort of ‘adult talk’ uncomfortable and embarrassing. A man’s thoughts and feelings should belong to him and should be sorted out internally, not aired out in public. However, the strain was becoming too much for even him to bear. “But with all those things I love, the ceaseless energy when the mood takes you, it’s too much.”

 

Sherlock nodded gently, he had known this was how it was to end even from the beginning. He had warned John that he would consume him, that it would only be a matter of time before John would tire of his constant, abrasive personality and leave.

 

John finally looked up at his companion and recognised the internal thought process as it reflected across his face. He shook his head and put a comforting hand on Sherlock’s knees, encouraging him to look up at him.

 

“No, you don't get it. I’m still as in awe of all that as I was when we first met. But I just need some time to myself every now again. To read my novel, go to the pub with Greg.” John looked at Sherlock who’s face projected utter misery until John added the rest of the thought “And then return home to you. You idiot.”

 

Lestrade looked confused, scrunching up his face and tilting it sideways as his ordinary brain struggled through understanding the scene before him. Putting his hands up as if halting a speeding truck he waved them around

 

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. When was the last time either of you spent any time alone?” Sherlock and John stared at each other until they both shrugged and mumbled an unsatisfactory approximation measured in weeks.

 

“Honestly this is pathetic. The only reason you’re being so..dysfunctional is ‘cos you’re livin’ in each pockets!” Lestrade chuckled to himself and shook his head. Getting to his feet, still laughing to himself, he headed to the door. Turning before he reached the frame he called out to the puzzled men

 

“John, meet you at the pub tomorrow night at 8pm. Sherlock, go… play your violin or something? You’ll both be happier for it, trust me. And for God's sake, talk about all this.” Still shaking his head in disbelief that the world’s only consulting detective couldn’t figure this one out he left the two men to sort it out amongst themselves.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

John and Sherlock stared at each other uncomfortably, not even acknowledging Lestrade’s exit or parting advice but simply letting John’s words hang in the air.

 

“So, you want to go out…without me….. but you still want me to be here when you get back?” Sherlock tried to piece together the puzzle that was a real relationship. 

 

“Yes I bloody well want you here when I get back. That’s the whole point of this.” He gestured between Sherlock and himself, rolling his eyes. “But you get a bit much sometimes, you know, not talking but just staring at me from your chair for hours. Following me everywhere…. I can’t remember the last time I took a shower when you weren’t at the very least in the bathroom otherwise you were in there with me.”

 

“I thought you liked having sex in the shower….” Sherlock pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“I do…. it's just that we need space sometimes, you know, boundaries. It can’t all be sex and cuddles.”

 

“But without ‘ _ sex and cuddles _ ’...” Sherlock grimaced as he repeated John’s words verbatim, “I have observed that relationships fail. Physical contact is a necessary and critical part-” John cut him off

 

“Yes but not all the time! Don’t you want to play your violin and compose something? Don’t you want to go and write a scientific article on some obscure and trivial crap?” He looked at Sherlock digesting the information until finally the detective nodded.

 

“I just wanted to make sure you stayed. My observations led me to believe that physical contact and presence in your day to day life would ensure a healthy relationship. However it has been a strain on my own nerves to have company around the clock. Perhaps…..” He trailed off, clearly chasing a thought trail that John recognised as Sherlock signing off for a time.

 

Taking advantage of the quiet detective, curled up in his chair with his chin resting on his fingertips, John rose from his chair and gave his companion a chaste kiss on his frowning forehead. Waved away with a huff John began to tidy up after their explosive argument and flicked the kettle on. Perhaps his novel may retain his attention now?

 

When John returned from straightening their flat with a fresh cup of steaming tea he found Sherlock sitting upside down in his chair and legs splayed either side over the arms and deep in thought. Knowing better than to attempt conversation with a Sherlock who was clearly not connected with reality, John settled into his chair and fished out his novel again. Looking fondly at the cover he decided it deserved a fresh start and began at page 1, sipping his tea between pages.

 

Sherlock brought forth the file marked 'Sebastian'. He had been reluctant to return to it since he had filed it away in the final years of college. Though unlike the guilt and shame that had been the purpose of avoiding Lucy's file, Sebastian's had been another story entirely. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, allowing his heart rate to slow and his memory of the events to become more defined. 

 

It wasn't until he met Curtis that he was aware that his body was in fact, attracted sexually to men. But it was Sebastian who had taught him how a relationship was supposed to function. They were only together for relatively short time. Eight months or so. He had only agreed to enter into the consenting relationship for research. Sebastian had been physically attractive and seemed to have a genuine interest in Sherlock. That was exactly the reasoning behind it, it had all the sufficient guidelines for extracting conclusive data. If he studied what made a partnership work, in turn researching the necessary emotions needed to form one, perhaps he could better understand the mystery behind said emotions and better himself at reading other people. 

 

Having never been in a relationship before, the very new and somewhat perplexing arrangement fascinated him. There had been plenty of sex and that was enjoyable enough. Though Sebastian had preferred to be the receiving partner to which Sherlock complied. Other than the sex, Sherlock kept mostly to himself. He would use any time not spent in Seb's bed either staying in his room, the library or the chemistry laboratory to study or complete disappointingly easy projects for extra credit. He saw no harm in this. The couples he had tried to observe from an outsider's perspective seemed to have sufficient time for solitary activities and still seem happy enough together and that suited Sherlock just fine. 

 

That had been, until Sebastian had confronted him. Sherlock remembered it perfectly. He had seen the darkness under his eyes and the the quiver in his lip. He had come to learn that he had been the first and only man Sebastian had been with. When he had entered the laboratory some weeknight and approached Sherlock, asking why he had been so distant which had then turned to yelling at him, claiming he had no heart before pleading for him not to leave him. Sherlock had simply raised an eyebrow in confusion and asked,

"Isn't this what couples do? Allow themselves solitary activities and only return to each other for the copulation?"

 

Sebastian's face had uncurled from a swirl of pain and sadness into something quite unreadable and almost blank. He had then moved closer to Sherlock, resting a hand softly on his shoulder and seemed to have a true understanding of his emotional flaws and his lack of knowledge on the subject. He promised to teach Sherlock how a relationship worked. It hadn't been until John had come into his life that he had been oh, so very wrong. 

 

Sebastian had been very thorough. He swore to Sherlock that there was only one way in which a relationship would work at all and it was a secret no one spoke about. That's why Sherlock didn't know and he wasn't to blame for the misunderstanding. It was simply that no one had told him and he was, in turn, sworn to secrecy. Not that it had mattered, he didn't have anyone close enough to speak of it with. There was no one except for Seb.

 

He had the rules mapped out and Sherlock adhered to them accordingly. First their positions had to be established. Seeing as Sebastian had been in a long term relationship before, given that it was with a woman, that still made him the experienced partner and therefore he set the rules. Sherlock must adhere to these rules in order to be a successful lover.

 

He was to never leave the sight of Sebastian therefore remaining within close proximity, be it at his side or in the same room, at the very least, at all times. Upon reflection, this did make sense. You need to be aware of the partners comings and goings and ensure they are safe at all times. Of course this made sense. Sherlock made a note of it and changed his actions accordingly. 

 

Another rule, unbeknownst to him, was that they had been going about sex in an entirely wrong fashion. Sex could not be performed, and therefore climax could not be satisfactorily achieved unless it was at the explicit instructions of the leading party. Sex must be practiced to fulfil the desires of the wants, needs and frequency of the more experienced partner. That was that.

 

It was Sebastian's instruction that sex would only occur when  _ he  _ wanted it. With Sherlock having little to no practice at all, he wasn't to understand how sex was to be carried out. Therefore they would only copulate when it suited Seb. Within that rule, there were guidelines, naturally. For instance, if Sherlock hadn't reached his climax before Seb, then he wasn't likely to at all. Sebastian had been adamant at receiving and insisted that once he had reached completion, that was the end of the endeavour. Sherlock had once made the mistake of asking Seb to stroke him to completion after he had finished but was met with a furious backhand that had bruised him for days. After that, he had come to learn the importance of these guidelines and saw to adhering to them as best he could.

 

This was different though. This was his John. His delicious, tea smelling, woolen jumper wearing doctor. If it was up to Sherlock as the more experienced in this relationship, with men at least, it was his role to lay out the rules. Of course they hadn't been functioning appropriately, there had been no guidelines! Albeit they'd need to be somewhat different than Seb's to cater to the needs of Sherlock. Yes they would need time for solitary activities, that was a must. As for the sex though.. typically Sherlock's only concern was ensuring John was satisfied. These rules would be so hard to convey to someone who didn't understand the guidelines. No matter, Sherlock knew exactly what needed doing. 

 

\-------------------------

 

It had been over an hour, John was well into his sixth chapter with a few centimetres of cold tea dwindling in the bottom of his forgotten tea cup. Without showing any signs of life whatsoever Sherlock spoke, 

 

“John, what is your refractory period?” John looked sideways at him, his face scrunched up in confusion.

 

“My what?” Placing his thumb in his book to keep his place, John could only imagine the thought processes Sherlock had been going through to arrive at such a question.

 

“What is your refractory period? Estimate, if you do not know exactly. We can always measure those parameters more accurately at a later date.” Sherlock still had not moved from his unorthodox position in his chair aside from his eyes that were now locked onto John’s. At the thought of just how Sherlock would go about “measuring those parameters” John decided to humour the detective,

 

“Well, I’m not as young as I used to be, so, I don’t know, maybe a few hours? Give or take a few variables.” The detective gave a grunt as acknowledgement, slithered out of his chair onto the floor and got to his feet. Without giving a verbal response to the doctor he walked straight past his chair and into his room, shutting the door behind him. John merely rolled his eyes and got up, stretching he padded to the kitchen to replace his cold tea.

 

John had just settled back into his chair and completed another two chapters when Sherlock burst out of his room and strode into the kitchen. Having just taken a sip of his tea John raised his eyebrows in silent question as Sherlock pinned something to the fridge and stepped back, looking at it proudly.

 

“What is that?” John ventured, suspiciously. Rising from his chair he went and stood by Sherlock’s side, following his gaze to a neatly drawn table upon a dirty piece of paper and the title in bright red, thrice underlined.

 

‘ _ Sex Schedule _ ’

 

John stared at it, uncomprehending, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words but his mind drew only blanks. Mouthing the words he looked at Sherlock incredulously and shook his head

 

“Sherlock-”   
  


“John, this is the best way. Really, the most organised way is to schedule our personal time and our intimate time into well defined, pre established time slots based on our commitments.” John still stared at the timetable, unable to reply. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘What about cases Lestrade needs our physical presence for?’, we will need to be somewhat flexible as unfortunately, such activities cannot be pre-planned, however, for the most part this schedule will ensure us our personal time.”

 

The days of the week were laid out in the first row with hourly time slots beginning at no less than 6am each morning with the last slot finishing at midnight. Looking at that day’s supposed schedule John ran a finger across Thursday’s timeslot and found they were directly in the middle of “Solitary Activities” which was to last from 2pm until 5pm. Immediately after that was “Sex” which alarmingly filled up another two hour slot, followed by “Dinner”.

 

John looked between the schedule and the beaming Sherlock who seemed very proud of his creation. The good doctor didn’t want to discredit his companion’s well intentioned work but he knew that sex cannot just be scheduled to happen at a certain time. That took all the passion from it, knowing that sex was coming at a certain time whether he be ready or not.

 

“Sherlock….” He began uneasily, but Sherlock shook his head and put a finger to John’s lips. 

“John,” he pointed to the ‘Solitary Activities’ timeslot they were currently in and shook his head. Walking away from a sceptical faced John he disappeared back into his room, this time nudging the door closed but leaving it ajar. John continued to read the schedule, after dinner was two hour slot from 9pm until 11pm marked curiously with ‘Research’. He dreaded to wonder what that activity could possibly entail seeing as it was on their schedule. He almost laughed, the whole farce of having a schedule on the fridge seemed like too much of a domestic act to belong in 221b Baker Street. 

 

John finished perusing the remainder of the schedule and what lay ahead of them for the next few days. Flicking the kettle on he mused to himself over how this schedule was going to play out. Obviously, it wouldn’t last even a few days, let alone the week but John was content to let the events unfold.  As he brewed his tea and took a scalding sip he heard Sherlock muttering to himself within his room and was overcome with curiosity. Putting his hot cup down on the counter and moving as quietly as he could manage he positioned himself outside of their shared room, formerly Sherlock’s, and peered around the edge of the door. On their bed was a dress mannequin, which John was sure had not existed in their room until that moment, male by the lack of breasts and currently being chastised by Sherlock for its lack of cooperation.

 

“If you had arms and legs this would be far more simple.” John observed that the mannequin, like most, did not have limbs, rather it cut off halfway through the bicep and quadricep. Sherlock was bent over it, a rope in one hand and hand pressing flat against the plastic chest as though keeping it still. John saw the ropes that crisscrossed the dummy almost like a harness, meeting in the middle in an intricate knot before forming a loose collar around it’s headless neck. His mouth went dry as he realised exactly what Sherlock was doing and he swallowed thickly. 

 

At the sound of John shifting his weight uncomfortably as his jeans became tighter Sherlock turned and frowned at the sight of his companion standing in his doorway.

 

“John, this is solitary time. You know, this won’t work if you don’t stick to the schedule.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m practising the most effective ways to restrain you using merely ropes and physical force.” He answered with a matter-of-fact tone. John’s eyes could only look at the rope dangling enticingly from the long, slender fingers and licked his lips.

 

“You could practice on me?” His voice was hoarse and a good deal lower than usual, lust dulling his eyes as he glanced again at the dummy with a pang of jealousy. Sherlock let out an irritated sigh and shook his head.

 

“No, no, no, that won’t do at all. We can’t copulate until 5pm. I put the schedule on the fridge as it is the most accessible place in the house and you are in the kitchen more oft than not. Please check the schedule.” Sherlock began shooing him out of the room, opening the door and pushing John out

 

“But… but!” John protested as he was shoved out into the hallway and faced with the closed wooden door.

 

“5pm, Watson!” Sherlock called through, his voice muffled but cheerful. John shoved his hands into his jeans and adjusted his arousal to release the pressure. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock had turned him down in favour of following his ridiculous schedule. Now he was aroused and frustrated. 

 

“So, ‘Solitary time’ huh…” He mused aloud, John wondered. Technically it was any activity that John wanted to do on his own and since Sherlock was clearly busy and the bulge in his trousers was not going away on its own that lead to only one conclusion.

 

Sherlock only briefly raised an eyebrow and paused, his fingers entwined in the processes of a complicated knot, when he heard the water running. It was unusual. John preferred to shower in the morning, a remaining habit from his military service. Had he been left to think further upon the matter Sherlock would have deduced exactly what his doctor was up to but the knot he had been holding fell apart. With a frustrated sigh Sherlock began it again, his mind totally absorbed in the task and forgetting John’s abnormal bathroom visit entirely.

 

\--------------------

 

The detective could already feel the frustration leave his body. He felt his shoulder’s relaxed and the tension from his neck abated after a mere thirty minutes alone with his thoughts. Mentally he chastised himself for being so ignorant to the inner workings of relationships that he allowed their own to degrade to the point where Lestrade thought an intervention was necessary. Still, he grudgingly admitted, if only to himself, that the detective inspector’s advice was correct, his keen observatory skills were already improving and he felt his mind run as though a car on premium fuel, smooth and fast. Tipping his neck from side to side and listening to the cracking with satisfaction he noted the water had stopped. Looking down at his watch his frowned; fifteen minutes? Overly long for a military man.

 

Opening their bedroom door he stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and looking coolly at the bathroom door which he expected to swing open at any second. True to his prediction the handle turned slowly and steam swirled out as it contacted the cool air in the hallway. A damp, hairy leg ventured out first, followed by a white cotton towel wrapped around the waist and tucked into the side to fasten it there. Sherlock appraised the man that stood there, slowly raising his gaze until he met John’s eyes.

 

“Oh, er, hi Sherlock.” John gave an awkward wave and went to go into their room where he had moved his clothes many weeks before but Sherlock put his hand out against his chest, stopping him in his tracks. 

 

“John, what were you  _ doing _ in there?” He asked, slowly putting all his observations together to make the deduction himself. John looked at him uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“Just... fancied a shower….” He replied somewhat lamely, cursing his inability to fabricate creative lies out of thin air as the detective was able to. Sherlock leaned in close, tucking his cool fingers beneath John’s chin to the strong pulse point and taking a quick count. With a satisfied grunt the detective held John’s chin still and looked into his eyes before leaning back and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

 

“Really John? I know I said solitary activities but I was not referring to  _ that _ .” Sherlock seemed entirely unimpressed while John attempted to regain some dignity by shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. Of course Sherlock knew, Sherlock always knew. Even if John asked him to explain it would still remain a mystery to him how the detective knew.

 

“You didn’t specify that on your schedule.” Nudging past the detective, John disappeared into their room to change as Sherlock stared after him.

 

“Indeed.” he murmured in agreement, walking towards the kitchen and scooping up a deep red pen on the way. After scribbling a note on his schedule he returned back to his room to resume his experiments with his mannequin.

 

John passed by Sherlock dressed only in his jeans and carried his towel with him, tousling his damp hair and humming tunelessly. Feeling slightly peckish and with the schedule dictating dinner not to be for several hours, he made a beeline straight for the fridge to rummage around for any leftovers that may still be edible. As he neared it, a bright line of red writing across the bottom of the new schedule caught his attention and he read it, mouthing the words silently.

 

_ Solitary Time is NOT a euphemism for masturbation.  _

_ Reserve all sexual activities for timeslot marked SEX. _

 

“Sherlock!” John yelled down the hallway, striding out into the lounge. “Sherlock! What the hell is this?” He pointed to the fridge as Sherlock poked his head out of their room.

 

“Its an amendment, John. A  _ specification _ .” He replied simply, as if it were the most obvious answer.

 

“You can’t just write this here on the fridge! What if Mrs. Hudson see’s it? She’ll be mortified.  _ I’m _ mortified! You can’t tell me when I can and cannot…. you know.” John gestured to the crotch of his pants and made a vulgar movement with his left hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the immaturity of not being able to call the activity by it’s name.

 

“Masturbate?” He offered in a deadpan tone.

 

“Yeah. What I do with my ‘Solitary Activities’ time is my own business, isn’t that the point?” John blushed, the red creeping down to his collarbone.

 

“But John, in forty-five minutes it’s  _ our _ time. How long did you say your refractory period was?” Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and returned to their bedroom with a sly smirk. John’s eyes widened as he recognised the look on his companion’s face and felt a joint thrill of arousal and apprehension. He was certain that he would be unable to come for at least two hours, though more comfortably four or five. However, seeing that ‘Sex’ was scheduled for the next two hours and Sherlock appeared to be following it religiously John couldn’t help but think he had made a huge mistake.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

John had attempted to wile away the nervous wait until 5pm reading his novel, but after rereading the same sentence repeatedly he gave up and switched on their seldom used television. The usual afternoon garbage was on, after flicking through several channels he finally indulged his inner child and left the after-school cartoons on. Scooby-Doo was running away from a tall vampire with long white fangs and dark, curly hair. A smile ghosted across John’s face as he compared the likeness to one Sherlock Holmes. He was just getting involved in the, to be honest, poorly constructed case when two hands fell upon his shoulders and an angular cheek came down to brush against his own.

 

“John," Sherlock drew his name out, long and slow. "It's 5pm. Come along.” Merely the sound of that silky, baritone voice drawling out the one syllable of his name raised the hairs on the back of his neck and John found himself obediently rising to his feet before his brain had even processed the instruction. Sherlock had already padded down the hall and was waiting for the bare chested John to enter before closing the door.

 

“I’ve been practising Shibari.” He stated plainly, gesturing to the ropes that had been meticulously laid out across the bed. John swallowed thickly, arms loose by his side and eyes wide as he looked at the ropes and remembered how they had been tied across the mannequin that had disappeared again.

 

“Put your hands behind your back, wrists together, palms facing each other. Just so.” Sherlock moved behind him and put John’s hands exactly how he wanted them. “Now stay still.” His words left no room for disobedience and John was not exactly unwilling. Striding over to the bed Sherlock’s brushed his fingers across the line up of ropes until he found one that satisfied him. Picking it up delicately he returned to stand behind John and measured out a length from the end. Wrapping it around John’s wrists thrice to form a loop he threaded the rope between and around itself, tightening it until John could feel no give at all. Carefully guiding the rope several inches up to halfway between wrist and elbow he repeated the motion again, pulling John’s arms together in a way that made his shoulder twinge just slightly. Tying it off he placed another similar tie above his elbows and a final one halfway up his bicep. 

 

Sherlock leaned back and admired his work. The way John's arms were bound induced a slight arch to his back and the red rope against his skin was overwhelmingly erotic already. 

 

"Sherlock...." John moaned quietly.  His companion nodded his agreement as he looped another rope across John's chest and around his upper arms. Recreating the intricate knot he had learnt earlier, he tied off the ends until the rope secured his arms firmly to his chest culminating in a neat knot in the center of John's rib cage. Sherlock traced the fingertips of one hand along John's jawline, watching as the man shivered beneath his touch. Touching a finger to his pulse point he noted it was elevated and looked up at the blown pupils. 

 

"Test the rope work, John. Just try." He instructed with a smirk. John flexed his hands, straining against the rope which dug into his flesh and would be sure to leave an imprint. He had been aroused since the first loop had bitten into his skin but the concreted knowledge that he would be unable to escape his bonds only served to exacerbate his arousal. Sherlock ran his fingers along the ropes across his companion's chest and trailed down to John's belt. Tugging on it hard John stumbled towards him and into his chest, his sense of balance entirely compromised. Slender fingers slowly unbuckled his belt as John stared down hungrily resting his forehead against Sherlock’s firm shoulder. Sherlock unbuttoned John's jeans and slipped them down to pool at the man's ankles, indicating to John to step out of them, before running his knuckles against the arousal that strained against the thin, red cotton. Leaning into the sweet not-quite-enough friction he closed his eyes relishing the smart bite of the rope against the tantalising touch.

 

John’s eyes flew open and he made a strangled noise in his throat as Sherlock suddenly gripped his balls in one hand and squeezed firmly. Leaning into his neck Sherlock nipped the soft flesh below his ear and growled, 

 

"On your knees, John." John moaned quietly in response as he dropped to one knee before folding both legs beneath him and resting back on his heels.

 

"Here's how this is going to work John. I scheduled sex at 5 o'clock and you went ahead and masturbated, thereby making this scheduled activity much more difficult. However, I plan to salvage this time by measuring your refractory period more accurately. I will also measure your reactions to a variety of stimuli until you reach climax.. However long that may take. Understand?" He lifted John's chin to meet his eyes 

 

"Yes." John choked out a response beneath Sherlock's steady, burning gaze. The detective nodded, evidently satisfied and pulled John to his feet up by the knot at his chest. Guiding his bound companion to the bed, he leant John’s arms against the headboard so the pressure was eased from his shoulder. Planting John’s feet firmly apart and pushing his knees to follow suit Sherlock looked at the bound man lewdly displayed for him and felt a throb of arousal. Scanning his eyes from John’s face to his cock that jutted up against his stomach Sherlock saw the rope digging into his chest and the way John’s muscles flexed against them intermittently as if still testing their strength.

 

He reached to their bedside table and threw open the top drawer, without looking he fished out a lube bottle and brought it in front of them. John read the label as Sherlock flicked open the cap and put a smear on the tip of his finger. He could almost see the man’s mind race to the reason why Sherlock would require cherry flavoured lube, even as Sherlock put his finger to John’s mouth and let the man taste it for himself he could still see him thinking. The taste was nothing like a real cherry, more like a sweet from the local sweet shop, sweet and tangy and not overly unpleasant. Sherlock removed his finger and put a generous dollop into the palm of his hand. Encircling John’s cock in his slippery hand he gave one broad stroke, coating him in a thin film of lube before using just his fingers to stroke the head in small swirling motions. John moaned, his hips flexing up to meet the hand but Sherlock took his hand away leaving him sadly bereft of any contact. Once John had returned to his former position, and only then, Sherlock began again, watching as John squirmed and listening to the heavy breathing and lewd sighs that fell from his lover’s mouth. Noting his response to that Sherlock began a quick, efficient rhythm from root to tip, watching John’s face intently.

 

John swore, struggling to keep his hips still. His shoulder ached already from the tight arm bindings but he couldn’t acknowledge any sensation above his cock. Sherlock’s expert hands were attempting to wring his first orgasm from him and though John could feel the pressure build and the urge to just let go all consuming he found himself unable. His body wanted to, he was stuck there at the precipice even as Sherlock tugged at his balls in the way that usually would be enough to push him over but was frustratingly not enough.

 

After being cruelly denied by his body John felt he couldn’t take it any more

 

“Sherlock! Please… I can’t!” He cried out as Sherlock gave one particularly hard squeeze of his balls and released them. As Sherlock removed his hand John’s cock twitched against his stomach as he felt the almost physical pain of denial.

 

“I know, John. Not yet anyway.”  Sherlock shuffled down the bed and guided John’s legs until his knees rested over the detective’s shoulders.

 

“I honestly don’t think I can…. I just...you know...like an hour ago. Sherlock!” John had tried to reason with the man between his legs but in that second Sherlock had swallowed John’s cock in one quick motion. His voice had trailed off and descended into a series of breathy moans and extensive struggling against the rope that held him totally still.  All John wanted to do was tangle his fingers in the dark curls and control the pace but Sherlock’s ropework was immaculate, like everything the detective threw his hand at, and John would not be released until Sherlock wished it to be so. He watched enviously as the head bobbed up and down with the most sinful of wet sounds.

 

Sherlock adjusted their position until John’s hips were angled further up with John’s torso slipping further down the headboard. Like this, john was totally exposed and ready for the next variable on his list. Sherlock had barely taken John’s cock from his mouth after the second failed attempt to extract a climax from him and while he was still whimpering had licked at John’s arse. 

 

John’s eyes flew open as he shook his head. It was all too much sensation coupled with his body downright refusal to give him what he wanted, what he desperately needed.

 

“Sherlock! Please!” John exclaimed as Sherlock’s tongue penetrated his body, mercilessly probing. John’s cock jerked in the detective’s hand as he delved as deep as he could, the cherry lube a sweet and distracting taste. The hand that stroked rhythmically gripped tighter as John moved his hips as much as his limited position could muster as Sherlock was buried between his legs. Rimming had never been a turn on for John, even with girlfriends he had his sights set on other targets, it felt wrong and sinful but felt overwhelmingly good. He felt the heat of pleasure coil up once more in his groin and reached the point where he would usually happily give in but found the moment empty and once again frustrating culminating his his balls aching painfully.

 

“Nnngg please Sherlock! I need… a break..” John whimpered, his cock pulsing with no pleasurable reward. His shoulder ached, the dull pain now at the forefront of his mind with his cock released from Sherlock’s talented hands. The ever observant detective noted John’s discomfort as he tried to shift his shoulders and lifted John up so his weight was on his backside instead of his bound arms.

 

“Does it hurt, John?” He asked, silkily.

 

“Which one? My shoulder or my balls?” John groaned in reply. At this point, both were filled with a deep ache. Sherlock snorted and shook his head

 

“Your shoulder.” John flexed his arms, attempting to relieve the pressure but found no give in the expert knots.

 

“Yeah, a little.” He admitted, closing his eyes at the sharp pain that shot through as he pushed his joint a little too far.

 

“Turn around.” Sherlock tapped his shoulders, obediently John got to his knees with some assistance from the detective and shuffled around to face the headboard. Loosening the knots first at the front, Sherlock fed the rope back through until the whole harness fell apart and tumbled off onto the bed. John groaned as the blood rushed back into his cold hands and felt the icy burn of pins and needles.The dark curled man massaged his limbs, admiring the indented rope marks that belayed the twisted pattern as he rubbed the feeling back into them. John leant back into Sherlock’s chest, enjoying the warmth of his companion and appreciating the rare gentle, ministrations.

 

“Are you really going to try and make me come so soon?” John asked quietly as Sherlock smoothes his hands over his chest.

“Yes, John.” He murmured in response, his voice low and gravelly.

“But.. I don’t think I can. Really….” John protested meekly, gesturing to his groin and sighing.

“You will. You’ll see.” He promised darkly. His hand ghosting over John’s cock which hadn’t softened much despite the change in mood. John leant his head back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder which the detective took as an invitation to bury his face into. Kissing from his earlobe down to his pulse point Sherlock hungrily kissed the exposed flesh of John’s neck while his hand slowly fisted around his cock. John groaned loudly, Sherlock could feel the vibration of his voice through his neck and made a small noise of agreement. He reached around John, tracing his jawline until two fingers rubbed at his lips. John opened his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits and sucking on them thickly until Sherlock drew them away. Putting his hand between them he rubbed the tips of his fingers against John’s entrance and found him already willing and pliable. He timed the first breach with a hard bite on John’s neck, sucking at the flesh until it would be sure to leave a mark and pushing the digits in slowly. The doctor sucked in a breath through his teeth, flexing his hands that remained resting on his thighs and exhaling slowly as Sherlock released his teeth and claimed another spot a few inches further. His hand moving between them, slowly fingering John in time with the hand that worked on his cock until John made soft, weak noises between breaths.

“Still don’t think you can come, John?” Sherlock asked silkily in his ear.  John didn’t think he could answer, he felt suspended between planes of reality, all that existed was this unquenchable pleasure that his body did not see fit to end yet. Pulling John back to him, he guided his cock, which thus far had been sadly bereft of contact, into John. He slipped his arms around his companion to steady him as he rested back on his knees and savoured the tight warmth for a few seconds. An opportunity of this sort did not present itself very often, with John unable to come, however desperately he may want to, Sherlock could now use John to explore his own limits with far less concern about John’s pleasure than he usually had.

 

He exhaled slowly, hissing between his teeth as he sank totally into John. His companion let out a long whine, jolting as if shocked when Sherlock passed his now very sensitive prostate.

 

“Oh God, I want to…. I want it so bad… but I can’t….” John choked out with a cry almost resembling a sob. Sherlock began a slow rhythm of thrusts, pulling out until the merest inch remained inside before snapping his hips forward, bottoming out in a fast, slick motion. Teasing himself as much as the panting man beneath him he let the pleasure pool in his groin, gradually collecting and taking him closer. John’s legs shook, as if it struggled to hold his own weight poised before Sherlock as he was and he fell forward, throwing his arms in front of him and shifting into a more sustainable position. Sherlock leaned over him and upped the pace, digging into John’s hips with fingers that would be sure to leave marks that John would admire for the few days they would last. The detective stilled suddenly mid stroke, John found himself moving back in anticipation of a thrust that didn’t come. The man pulled out entirely with a strangled moan as he denied himself his climax. Waiting until he came away from the edge he watched his cock twitch against John’s skin, throbbing with denial and winced at the almost painful sensation from his balls that clung tight to his body.

“Sherlock?” A dishevelled John shot a questioning glance over his shoulder at the detective who had his eyes closed and a pained grimace on his face. Without warning his eyes flashed open and he pressed himself quickly back into John causing the man to clutch frantically at the sheets. Sheathing his entire length into his companion he leaned into John’s neck covering the man with his body and spoke quietly into his ear

“I will not come until you do.” He promised darkly

“That may take a while…” John quipped, his voice disappearing into a moan as Sherlock began again, slowly, letting his pleasure build up once more and relishing the sensation of John around his more sensitive cock.

“That’s the very idea of it, John.” Sherlock uttered, his eyes shut as his hands once again found their place upon John’s hips.

 

Five times he brought himself torturously close to completion and five times he cruelly denied himself. Each denial harder than the last and requiring more and more self control not to simply let go and rendering the experiment entirely lost. Both men were covered in a sheen of sweat from their combined exertion but Sherlock had that determined look in his eyes that said he was willing to push them further until he had reached his goal. Sherlock was once again buried in John, paying particular attention to his prostate, making shallow thrusts that drove John beyond reason when the phone rang insistently beside them.

“Don’t answer it…” John panted, one hand beneath himself and fisting his cock in time with Sherlock’s unbearably pleasurable thrusts. Now he had been given time to recover, he felt himself getting closer and he allowed himself to think that he may just be able to come after all.

“Quiet John.” Sherlock admonished. He picked up the phone and answered with a steadily controlled voice as though he wasn’t at that very moment balls deep in a man who couldn’t prevent lewd sounds falling from his mouth.

“Hello? Ah, Lestrade, what is it? I am terribly busy.”

“Sherlock, there’s been a murder, a woman. Its an… what was that noise?” Lestrade paused as John interrupted with a loud moan in response to Sherlock pressing particularly hard against John’s prostate.

“It was nothing, continue.” Sherlock waved away the detective inspector’s question and put a firm hand around John’s mouth while relentlessly fucking into him. John couldn’t believe that Lestrade couldn’t hear the smacking sounds as his arse made contact with Sherlock’s hips.

“Yes, well, so it's an interesting one, naturally, because she was found… no really. Is everything okay over there? I’m sure I heard someone. Is someone there? Are they forcing you to stay quiet and act normal? Use a day of the week in a sentence if it's not okay. I can come over?.” Lestrade sounded concerned after hearing John’s now muffled moan again.

“I don’t think Doctor Watson would be overly happy at your company, presently. He’s a bit.. busy.” Sherlock replied dryly, the smile on his face transferring into the purr of his voice as an absolutely debased John whined again.

“What was.. oh God..you two are going at it aren’t you?! Oh, for Christ's’ sake!” There was a distinct click as a mortified Lestrade hung up and Sherlock threw the phone away from him, funneling his energies instead into fucking John into the mattress.

Evidently John appeared to like the idea of a third, uninvolved party realising what they were doing as he cried out loudly, his come spurting out onto the bedspread, though in considerably less volume than usual. Feeling John contract rhythmically around his cock Sherlock let himself go almost immediately, his last few thrusts erratic and fast. Pulling John’s hips to him he emptied into his lover and collapsed on top of him, putting away the small exhibitionist kink John had displayed away for sorting later.

 

After they had lain in silence on the bed, just catching their breath and Sherlock listening to John’s heartbeat through his back the latter rolled off and spoke softly,

“One hour and seventeen minutes.” 

John made an inquisitive noise and lazily opened his eyes to look at the detective. He always loved the way he looked after sex. He clearly had the hair that told anyone in the vicinity exactly what they had been up to and the usually pale cheeks were still flushed.

“What was that?”

“Your refractory period. One hour and seventeen minutes.” Sherlock explained, bluntly.

“You say that as if it’s a record to beat…” John said warily, narrowing his eyes at the detective before closing them and sucking in a deep breath. “Oh God.” Sherlock smirked but made no other effort to move, enjoying the way the endorphins rushed around his body. It was the only feeling that came close to the high that abusing drugs produced, it was no wonder ordinary people did this all the time.


	9. Chapter 9

 

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time up the flat while John lagged behind, yawning into the elbow of his coat. They had been called away from the flat by Lestrade with a case he deemed interesting enough to snag the detective’s fickle attention. In fact, Sherlock was so impatient to be gone that although they had just sat down for dinner, Sherlock had dragged John to his feet and jostled him out the door before he could eat anything. And now, after watching Sherlock work and then running after a particularly agile assailant they were home and he felt the exhaustion of the evening catch up to him.

 

He hung up his coat and yawned again, stretching and looking blearily around for where Sherlock had gone.

“Its dinner time.” Sherlock called from down the hall. He had removed all his sociable clothes and was tying up his blue dressing gown as he walked towards John.

“No, it's not dinner time, it’s sleep time. What time is it?” John checked his watch and grumbled audibly. “Bloody hell it’s past 12, I’m going to bed. If you’re hungry there’s leftovers in the fridge.” He started towards their bedroom when he was steered, protesting loudly, into the kitchen to stand before the fridge.

“John, we left just before dinner, so we should eat now.” Sherlock pointed at the schedule which John peered at through tired eyes.

“Sherlock I really don’t think-”

“Come on John, heat up some dinner, it's been a long day and I’m sure you are hungry, you’re always hungry.” Sherlock left John in the kitchen glaring at the detective’s back. Grumbling to himself,  _ I am not always hungry you just insist on feeding me all the time _ , he heard an answering grumble from his stomach and supposed he might want to eat something before breakfast. Seeing John open the fridge and began bustling around the kitchen Sherlock smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair and went over the case in his mind.

 

John placed two plates of an indeterminable chinese based meal on the table and tapped the edge of the plate to attract Sherlock’s attention. Not waiting for his companion to join him John started immediately, not realising the extent of his hunger until his mouth watered at the smell of the asian food. It would be a few minutes until Sherlock joined him and they ate in companionable silence broken only by the click of chopsticks against the porcelain bowls. When Sherlock had finished, he stood and consulted at the fridge.

 

“Solitary activities for three hours since dinner did not take up its allotted time. See you at 2:30.”

 

“You bloody better not Sherlock, I told you, I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you at a reasonable time in the morning.” John replied with a grumble, however, Sherlock appeared not to have heard and was once again in his armchair touching his fingertips beneath his chin. Rolling his eyes John cleared the dishes into the sink and retired to their room, tugging off his clothes until he fell onto their bed face first in just his red pants and pulled the covers over himself. Within minutes he was snoring lightly into the gap between the pillows.

 

“John…” He awoke to a tall, lanky figure leaning over him, calling his name. Disoriented at being woken at such an ungodly hour John’s eyes flew open and he instinctively pushed the figure away giving him space to reach beneath the pillow for his gun but instead found cold sheets. Time caught up with him and he realised where he was and the figure shaking him awake was a robed Sherlock who held his Browning in his hand.

 

“Sherlock.. what time is it? Come on, let’s go to bed.” He rolled away leaving space for the detective to enter deciding he would rather not acknowledge what time it was as it would only serve to make him more grumpy. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, swung his feet up and nestled beneath the covers against John’s back. His sleepy companion opened his eyes as narrowly as possible and glared down at the fingers that were snaking around beneath the hem of his pants.

“Sherlock what are you doing?” He growled, pushing the unwelcome hands away. “I’m tired, I just want to sleep. There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow.” Closing his eyes he tried to settle again but the hands were quite insistent. John grabbed them firmly and moved them away, sitting up and facing his detective.

“Sherlock I said I just want to sleep! Go wank if you’re horny.” Sherlock shook his head

“John, the schedule says sex now.” He insisted calmly.

“No it doesn't it says sleep, remember, we’ve had the conversation about reasonable hours to be put aside for sleep and now is definitely a sleep time.”

“But we had the case, it's put us approximately six hours behind so we’ve had dinner, and then solitary, and now it's sex.” Sherlock laid it out plainly but John simply couldn’t comprehend the logic.

“We aren’t having sex just because we’re running late. If anything, and I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this thought, the case made us skip six hours and so we are still in sleep time.”

“But John-” Sherlock began to argue but John raised his voice and gesticulated wildly, as he was wont to do when he got angry about something.

“No Sherlock. No. I’m bloody tired, you had me running around after you as usual, which is fine, but now its late and I want to sleep. Sex is not happening. I don’t give a  _ fuck _ what the schedule says.”  He waved his hands around in a gesture that mimed finality and crossed his arms with a huff.

 

Sherlock couldn’t understand, this was how it was supposed to work. Stick to the schedule and it will all turn out fine as this was his solution to the personal space problem and as the more experienced partner he had to fix it.

 

When Sebastian had laid out their schedule it had allowed their relationship to function properly, hadn't it? Designated rules and guidelines that both the men had adhered to. Sherlock had noticed instantly Seb's rules seemed to be fairly one sided, but that was his privilege, his right. He had more experience in this department so that categorised him as the leader. Sherlock had decided he would take a different approach seeing as he much preferred the sight of his doctors pleasure rather than his own, so he would forgo some of the template Sebastian had left him with and create his own. That was Sherlock’s privilege. 

 

“Well you know what?! Nuts to your goddamn schedule.” John leapt up from the bed and bolted past Sherlock, striding down the hall with thundering footsteps that would most definitely garner complaints from Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock hurried nervously after the furious John and watched as he tore the schedule from the fridge and tore it to bits.

“Stupid-piece-of-shit-ridiculous-nonsense!” Each word coupled with a new tear until the schedule was turned into so many pieces of confetti.

“I’m not having sex just because this says I have to. I don’t want to right now, which I know must be hard for you to understand since you think I’m just turned on all the time, but that’s not how it works. It's not how  _ any of this _ works.” He glared at the mute Sherlock who was staring glumly at the scrap paper and felt a twinge of guilt for losing his cool. As his anger began to dissipate he realised this was a bit not good and that he should’ve perhaps approached this a slightly different way.

“I’m going to bed now, Sherlock, to  _ my _ bed. And God help you, if you come into my room and wake me up before 8am!” He whirled around on his heel and headed straight up the stairs to his recently disused room, slamming the door behind him somewhat childishly and throwing himself onto his bed. Burying his head in his pillow John sighed heavily, his pulse elevated and a tense feeling in the pit of his stomach he shrugged it off as adrenaline and tried to settle.

 

Sherlock remained rooted to the spot in the kitchen surrounded by tatters of paper and feeling utterly confused.  Did he want to..  _ not _ continue anymore? Sherlock had put so much effort into this, their rules and their schedule, to ensure a successful coupling with his doctor. This was how it was supposed to work? The dominant figure with his guidelines. Everyone knew about this rule, it was just that no one talked about it. Sherlock could understand the reasoning. People were so obsessed with privacy and decency that they'd more than likely not want to discuss the specifics of their relationship. That was always fine with Sherlock. He didn't want to know. 

 

Sherlock had found himself utterly exhausted and infuriated. His mind followed his transport which was suddenly overwhelmed with a desperate desire to be away from 221b. He grabbed his coat off the rack and secured his scarf before heading into the winter's gale. The streets were quiet, but that was to be expected at this hour of the morning. With the deserted restaurants, stores and cafes, all closed of course, London had finally supplied Sherlock with some silence. With the wind catching some of the newly formed frost and sweeping it up in its wake, Sherlock knew what he needed and they were always open. 

 

It was, perhaps a further walk than he should attempt in such cold conditions, but he couldn't bare the small-talk of early morning cabbies. Unlike day or night cabbies, the early morning drivers often tried to pry secrets and gossip from the drunks or the variously shamed fares they would undoubtedly pick up. He was in no mood, so walking would do. 

 

He and John had worked, somewhat, for years at their relationship and now that they finally had it, John didn't want to proceed? He was certainly being difficult about it. Offering up sex or accepting it willingly when Sherlock had initiated then turning around and tearing up the very guidelines that were to keep them together. Without that, this would surely fail. That's how it works. If only there was something more readable or deducible from this. Sherlock, with his little ability to decipher 'feelings', felt that as time grew, John was becoming harder and harder to read.

 

He neared his destination with a sigh. He couldn't tell if it was a reprieve from the walk or in anticipation of what he was to soon receive. Sherlock felt a small pain in his sternum which he deemed to, possibly, be guilt. He hadn't needed this in so long and whenever he had needed it, his doctor would help bring him through his withdrawals. He had been getting better at it, but since John had found and disposed of his secret supply, which acted more as a security blanket, Sherlock was now left with the mundane task of acquiring more, thereby meaning he would have to deal with people. Again. How tedious. If they  _ were _ to go their separate ways, which would pain Sherlock to no end..  _ what would he do without him? ..  _ Sherlock would be forced to come here on a regular basis. The thought alone made his features curl in disgust. 

 

Perhaps he could send Mrs Hudson instead.

 

The glass door opened automatically as he approached. The fluorescent bulbs were an awful contrast to the darkness that had shrouded the detective for almost an hour. There were an upsetting number of customers here already purchasing milk and bread and other routine necessities that Sherlock attempted to avoid as he made his way to the customer service desk. Years ago, Sherlock had paid off everyone within a two mile radius of 221b to not sell him any and that was probably for the best. That was then. Now he was in desperate need and a comfortable three miles away. He scanned his eyes through the meager staff and towards the registers to see if anyone from his 'deal' would recognise him. He was met only with a young man that guarded his medicine. This perfect. The pimply faced boy behind the register was clearly high. At least that meant little to no small talk. He proceeded.

 

Upon asking for his desired brand, a full tar cigarette - none of this low tar filth his older brother was like to smoke, he was met with a blank faced stare and no response at all. Sherlock moved to directly within his line of sight and stared again. Nothing. Having had his patience worn away entirely and his frustration with the evening events having cumulated so a single and perhaps devastating argument, Sherlock had no time for this. Quickly assessing that the attendant had in fact, smoked marijuana not too long ago, he moved slowly closer and closer towards the attendants face, hoping not to startle him too early. When he was mere centimetres from the acne-ridden flesh of the man behind the desk, he shouted. A short, loud shout that made the man jump back so fast he almost fell over the other side of the counter.

 

"Good you're awake. I'd hoped I shouldn't be in here longer than necessary." The poor man was almost beside himself but attempted to remain somewhat professional considering his blatant hinderance. He rifled through drawers attempting to find the correct brand for his unconventional customer and set one packet and a cheap lighter in front of him on the register. 

 

Typically in a situation similar to this where he would be required to pay money, he typically left it to John or persuaded the shop owner to send a bill to his brother, just because it annoyed him. But John wasn't here and he couldn't have his brother find out he was smoking without him, he'd never hear the end of it. They both tended to save their discrepancies until they had each others company so they could swap stories about who had it worse. He'd be somewhat annoyed that Sherlock would smoke without him. 

 

Casting his pride aside, he placed the small notes from his pockets on the counter. He flashed the attendant an exaggerated smile as he collected the carton and the lighter before twirling in a dramatic flourish and heading out the door and returning to the cold of the winter's night. 

 

He fumbled at the clear cling-film around the box as he struggled to get one out, desperate for the rush of chemicals through his system. He brought the base to his lips, gently inhaled as his cold fingers clicked at the wheel, begging for a spark before finally the tip was set alight. He inhaled again only much deeper and dropped his head back as he felt the rush of dopamine begin to work instantly to calm his racing trail of thought. The noise quietened and the streets of London became somewhat more relaxed. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to truly feel it. He felt his lungs expand and contract at the intrusion of the thick smoke. He heard the quiet noises of London in the early hours of the morning. Everything that had become a swirling haze of nonsense in the last few hours, no, the last few days had settled. 

 

\-----------

 

He casually strolled through the streets of London at a much slower pace than he had on the way out. With the creamy smoke thick in his lungs and the slow bursts of dopamine through his system, he finally had a moment to think clearly and for himself. It was true the Solitary Activities were, in fact, solitary and it had given him a reprieve. Though he himself had to admit sometimes they weren't timed at the most opportune moments. He could be half way through his Solitary Activities and stumble across something that required further investigation obtained only through Research that wasn't scheduled for hours. Upon lighting his third cigarette, Sherlock checked his watch. John said he would be allowed to wake him after 8:00. Perhaps it would be best if he asked John for his input towards some rules. 

 

John had been in numerous relationships before, even married the once, granted that probably wasn't a shining example of his success. He must have more experience with the rules and guidelines than Sherlock had. He had only adhered to one set and he seemed to be failing at making the rules himself. Perhaps with a joint effort they would be able to map out the guidelines and be able to further progress the relationship. 

 

He arrived back at Baker Street a little shy of 7:00. He let himself in, immediately noting the change of temperature. Mrs Hudson would have started a fire upstairs. She was always a morning bird and especially in these cold winter days, she would often remark that 'her boys should keep warm else it'll affect their thinking'. Which of course was nonsense, but he did appreciate coming back to the warmth of him home.

 

He made his way up the stairs, rather quietly as to not awaken John or alert Mrs Hudson to the fact he had been absent. Sherlock quietly let himself into their apartment and head immediately for the kitchen to pick up what remained of their 'schedule'. He paced through the flat and around the living room, tracing his fingers over the edges where John had torn them and reflected on how upset his doctor had been. Surely he wasn't  _ that _ upset. He was rather lacking on sleep and Sherlock knew how he reacted without it. He fumbled with the pieces of paper, flattening them between thumbs and rubbing them at the edges, as if massaging them would coax out some answers. 

 

_ No. This experiment was a failure. We'll be needing a fresh start.  _ He threw the pieces towards the fireplace and made his way to the bathroom for a shower, suddenly desperate to be rid of the smell of smoke. The paper delicately fluttered down into the newly lit flames before slowly shrinking away and disappearing into the flickering blanket of orange and red.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter. Please be mindful of the new tags and proceed with caution if this subject is a delicate one. <3

John yawned and blinked the sleep from his eyes reluctantly. Stretching, he blearily looked around at the unfamiliar room until the events of the previous night caught up with him and he groaned, rubbing his face into his hands. Sherlock. The Schedule. An uncomfortable talk was going to have to transpire now, the schedule clearly wasn’t going to work, which John had known from the very beginning. He had merely accommodated the socially inept detective’s attempt at sequestering much needed alone time despite the plan’s impending doom. John pulled back his covers and sat up reluctantly, checking his watch he found it to be 7:45 which was not overly early and he swung his feet out. Time to face the music, as it were, it would be best to get this disagreeable matter over and done with as soon as possible. Padding to the door he placed a hopeful ear against it, as if he might locate his detective through sound alone but when the mood struck him Sherlock could easily be silent for days. Hearing nothing that may suggest the whereabouts of Sherlock John opened the door and tentatively stepped out onto the landing.

The air was warmed by the fire, though the floorboards were cold on John’s bare feet and he spared a wistful thought for his dressing gown in their shared room. Walking down the stairs he snuck a look down into the lounge and spied Sherlock sitting, fully dressed in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin and eyes closed introspectively. Creeping down the stairs John winced as a step creaked and he shot a quick look at Sherlock who had opened one eye that stared directly at him.

“John.” He acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head.  
“Morning Sherlock.” John replied, his voice sleep clogged and he cleared his throat awkwardly. He made his way to Sherlock and reached out a hand to affectionately touch his curls but before he made contact he instantly picked up on the familiar scent. John frowned, his nose crinkling up before he gave a small sigh of disappointment. Sherlock almost winced at the sigh of displeasure, nothing was worse than being on the pointy end of John’s disappointment. He much preferred the veteran’s anger to be directed his way but the detective supposed he deserved it. “Did…. did you go out last night after… you know..” John couldn’t look at Sherlock but if he had, he would have seen the detective pointedly avoiding his gaze. The doctor knew Sherlock must’ve gone out, but he needed Sherlock to admit it for himself. For his own sobriety, if not for him. Both men looked away uncomfortably, the tension in the air was palpable as Mrs. Hudson bustled in obliviously chattering away.

“Bit of a rubbish day today, isn’t it boys? All wet and cold and… oh…” She trailed off as her keen nose picked up the traces of smoke on Sherlock. That could not bode well. Looking up to regard their faces she realised what she had blundered in on and slipped out with an apologetic “I’ll come back later then..” Both men did not move for several minutes, their minds working overtime to form words that would hurt less. 

“Yes.” Sherlock replied to the question that still hung in the air despite their landlady’s intrusion. “You went to bed but I did not. I went out.”  
“And..” John pressed gently drawing an annoyed sigh from the detective.  
“And I bought a packet of cigarettes and smoked them.” Sherlock closed his eyes, remembering how calm he had felt after so long without while John nodded with satisfaction of the admittance.  
“Must’ve trekked a fair way to find anyone that would sell to you.” He mused, trying to inject some humour into the cold atmosphere between them. 

The crackling of the fireplace made a feeble attempt to break the silence. The two men both searched desperately for words that would sweep John's rage, Sherlock's smoking and the distance between them under the rug but it was hopeless. No phrase or perfectly formed sentence could make this go away. They needed to face this head on, have it over with and move on. 

"Sherlock, I -"  
"Wait." The detective interjected. He needed data. That was all. Given the correct information, he could understand why John had reacted the way he did and the could fix it. Perhaps if they spoke about the rules and worked cooperatively they could set them to work appropriately for both parties. "Was it the rules? My guidelines, were they unreasonable? I thought the schedule would have made things clear?"

John's mouth dropped, involuntarily. Rules? What was this, now? Where had he..? Never mind. This was Sherlock. Of course he had everything organised in his own way.

"What rules?" Sherlock finally opened his eyes and met John's stare with confusion. Was he adamant in not speaking of them? He knew they were kept quiet, but he thought his doctor wouldn't be so childish.

"The rules? The rules. Of a relationship. The ones created by the more experienced party and adhered to by both members to ensure their relationship is successful. Surely, you know of these? Every relationship has them and you've been in more relationships than I can count and you were married. Surely you understand them better than I do, I had just thought, being the most experienced, well having the only experience in a same-sex relationship, I took it upon myself to create the guidelines, made evident by the schedule."

John glanced nervously to the floor, clearing his throat, hoping to god Sherlock couldn't read the lack of subtleties on his features. But he could. Of course he could. He stared back up to his detective, trying to process what it was he was saying. 

"Sherlock.." The detective continued, barely minding John's attempts to get his attention and sagged exaggeratingly further into the chair.

"I know, we aren't supposed to speak of them. That's what Sebastian told me in college, but leaving it unspoken isn't really working out, is it? Seeing as I've only been in one other relationship, I haven't as much experience as you, but -"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's racing words came to an abrupt halt. He had lost himself in spouting out pre-rehearsed words, that had somehow gone on a tangent. He wanted everything to be right with John. He needed it to be. John was his everything and he needed to do anything possible to make sure he stayed and didn't become 'worn down'.  
"Sebastian?"  
"Yes, the third of my encounters. The second was a one time thing, hardly important. Sebastian was the most successful I'd been in a relationship -" He finished somewhat sheepishly, " - until I found you."

John didn't like this. Something felt off. Felt wrong.  
"What did he tell you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Did his doctor truly not know about the rules. Sebastian said that everyone knew, it just wasn't publicly stated due to 'privacy' and all that nonsense.  
"About the rules. Regulations set up by the more experienced partner that both parties of a relationship adhere to. I just said-"  
"What were his rules?"  
"I don't see how that's relevant to our -"  
"Sherlock, please. This will help. Trust me."

Sherlock hadn't thought of Sebastian since John had brought up Lucy, which was now months ago. Before that.. He thought back and took a breath.  
"That we must remain within proximity at all times to be aware of the others activities. That solitary activities were prohibited. I was forbidden to stay in his bed after intercourse. Most of them were sexual rules. Copulation was only to occur when he required it. If I didn't achieve orgasm before he did then I wasn't permitted to at all -"

John's heart sank. What did he do to you? Sherlock ran through the rules given to him by the only other lover he had as if they were a shopping list, or as if he was he was reporting details of a death to Lestrade. Emotionless. Factual. John felt a physical ache wrapped tight around his heart and felt it plunge down into the pits of his gut. Had Mycroft known about this? He knew everything, surely he knew about this as well. Wouldn't he have stopped it or warned John going into this that Sherlock was delicate? 

The Buckingham Palace came flooding around him. Sherlock wrapped in his bed sheets as they were to meet their illustrious client. Mycroft had entered on her behalf and began his description of 'The Woman' which brought John to a whole new area he didn't have time to care about right now. What was it Mycroft had said to his brother? Sherlock had made some passing comment about how sex didn't alarm him to which the older brother snapped back,  
"How would you know"

He mustn't have known. How could he not? John listened till the end.

" - and, naturally, that I was under no circumstances to touch myself at any time. I suppose he wanted to do it himself, I'm not sure. His rules were the only template I had to work off for our relationship and they didn't suit me so I changed them to suit our arrangement and set out the schedule."

"Sherlock - " John cleared his throat, desperately hoping to shake the physical hurt in his chest. " - How long were you with him for?"  
"Eight months."

John choked out a breath. It came out as almost a laugh of disbelief and was drawn immediately back in on its threat to break John down into tears all together. Eight months. The doctor scanned his detective's face for emotion, for pity, for anything but was met with that same confused brow.  
"Did you ever go against his rules?"  
"Why does that matter? Please John, do get to your point."  
"Last question. I promise."

Sherlock's eyes bounced back and forth as he studied the other man. His eyes darting between Johns furrowed brow, the wrinkle on the bridge of his nose and the dryness of his lips. He'd seen that expression before. Lestrade had worn it so many years ago. Long before he had even met his doctor. It was the one he wore when he found him with a belt around his bicep and a needle in his arm. After he came back down and the world came flooding back, both in and out of focus, he had learned that expression meant worry. Concern. Lestrade hadn't known him for too long but he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend in years. Given what John had evolved into, this expression was increased, tenfold. Was something not good? 

Rather confused, and somewhat shyly, which was new for the detective, he admitted,  
"Once."  
John waited. Sherlock hadn't brought this up because it embarrassed him. Sherlock wasn't embarrassed by many things, if any at all, but this mistake that he was certain he would only make once, reminded him he wasn't like other people. That he couldn't have a normal relationship because he didn't have the capacity for the emotion required. All the intellect in the world and the vast premise within his Mind Palace, and he knew he would never understand love. Not really. So tentatively, he continued.  
"I asked him if he would stroke me to completion after he was finished and he hit me. Bruised my cheek for a few days, but I learned then how seriously these rules were taken. I was happy to learn anything about the functionality of relationships. I didn't ask again"

John's words had left him. He parted his lips to offer something, anything but he didn't know what to say. He had seen plenty of abusive relationships when the partner would come into his clinic for pain killers. They'd 'fallen down the stairs' or 'bumped into a doorknob'. Being on the outside was simpler. It was still difficult. As their medical practitioner he had a duty of care to make sure they were safe and he knew the correct procedures to follow but they were all relatively the same. Angry, often intoxicated partners who blamed their substance or 'authoritative' males raised to believe it was still 1920. Sherlock, as always, would be in his own category. His brilliance, his demeanor, his humour, even that smallest hint of vulnerability that came with being alone for so long. Everything was his own and everything about him was unique. It was why John had found him so fascinating and amazing. 

He had no idea that someone could take advantage of that. Some cruel college boy would be so cold as to mess with his brilliant head, feed it false facts and leave a permanent mark on how he saw the world. He tensed his left hand and curled it to a fist, as if the boy were here now and he would crack his jaw without a second thought. But the damage had been done, and years had grown over it. He needed to be the doctor and reset the break.

"Sherlock," He started, delicate to choose the words that wouldn't make this worse. He thought long and hard between each sentence. "What Sebastian said to you.. About.. the rules..." He was unsure of where to look. His eyes meeting Sherlock's, then to the floor, to the frost on the outside of the window. He wanted to avoid catching the gaze of his detective, his wonderful detective, in a vain attempt not to witness whatever pain may form behind his calculating blue eyes. He needed to. Sherlock deserved the sincerity, the clarity. John met Sherlock's eyes and fought hard to keep the meeting. "He made them up."

Sherlock's brow softened. The confused features melting back into a neutral, accepting face. As he heard his doctor explain how he was lied to, betrayed, made weak without his awareness, he stood. His transport had again, grown uncomfortable. Giving in to its many desires involving John had made him succumb to it more easily. It was beginning to have a control on him. He felt the tangible pain in his chest, a heavy weight in his abdomen and a boiling in the back of his head. These new 'feelings' weren't welcome at all. 

"So what you're saying is.." His mind brought forth a flood of images, Sebastian demanding intercourse, the hand as it came down across his cheek, his orders of keeping him within sight all appearing to Sherlock in a new light. He had often heard or seen victims of abuse and thought they were pathetic. Weak, insufferable children who had little to no courage to stand up to their abuser, or claiming that they had deserved it. He would never have dreamed that he would have become one of them. 

He replayed it again and again. The demands, the sex, the hand across his cheek. Surely he must have thought something was amiss? Sherlock hadn't seen any of his classmates with similar bruises. Perhaps they followed the rules better. No. There were no rules. He played it again. The demands, the sex, the burning across his cheek, 'their little secret'. He knew during their relationship that he didn't have the capacity for the same emotional attachment that Sebastian was capable of. Sebastian had made that very clear. 

He delved further. He knew the reasoning behind it. He stayed with the man because he was his teacher. He kept Sherlock with him so that he could learn how relationships function. But he had lied. Again and again. He reflected again upon the comparative cases he'd seen of abuse victims and thought the physical pain would be enough for them to realise they needed to walk away. He hadn't even begun to look behind the broken bones and the bruises. 

Sebastian had a control over Sherlock. With his promise to allow Sherlock to study human interaction, he chose to use that power to feed him false information. A corruption on his hard drive that had seeped into other related files, images and documents, tainting them and forever affecting their usefulness and integrity. Sherlock shut his eyes tight and held them together, begging for the virus to have left John's wing alone, but he knew it was meaningless. It had already burrowed deep inside. His rules leaving their black spot across the entirety of John and his relationship. He'd inadvertently poisoned it himself. No. No. Sebastian had poisoned him. The thought made his skin crawl. 

Sherlock fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, desperate for his hands to remain busy in fear of them shaking and his doctor worrying. He'd already ruined their relationship, he couldn't have John taking pity on him for the poison through his system.  
"Thank you Doctor Watson, this was quite informative. I appreciate for your assistance." He strode past John who was still in his chair, stunned and with his words stolen from him. If it weren't for his military reflexes, he'd have let his detective escape to God knows where when he clearly needed to be at home, with him. Instead, his arm shot out and caught Sherlock's forearm before he could get anywhere.

"Doctor Watson? Where do you think you're going?"  
Sherlock refused to meet his eye. He wouldn't cause his doctor, his sweet, and so very good blogger any more pain than he undoubtedly already had.  
"It seems my little knowledge of appropriate human interaction has been previously compromised. I need to address the files that have been damaged and delete them appropriately." The detectives expression remained calm and emotionless. He didn't struggle keeping this mask on. He'd worn it for so many years it was hard to tell where his own skin ended and the mask began. John pulled him back and stood to meet him, looking up into deep glaciers so full of new hurt and betrayal.

"Delete them?" Sherlock nodded, curtly. "Delete any files you have on relationships." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to nod again. He felt immediately pained after the first seeing his doctor's reaction to it. 

John let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in waiting for a reply. His hand tensed and loosened, trying to will his heart and his breathing back to its normal range. It was slowly increasing and John did not like the direction this was headed.  
".. Delete me?"

The two men stared at each other. The hurt tangible on each others face. Sherlock's transport was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Typically he'd have silenced any input it would have towards his well being and see to it when convenient. Only no foreseeable future had a convenient moment in it. Not if he was without John. He spoke slowly, pausing between breaths,  
"Clearly I am not capable of love. I don't understand it and the concept eludes any form of logical reasoning. You - " He took a deep breath, the look on his doctor's face making near impossible to continue, but he must. "You are overwhelmed with the qualities required for making someone happy. I don't possess them and I can't have your warmth snuffed out because of my inadequacies."

He stepped back before John could interject again. He reached for his coat and slid it over his shoulders and fastened the buttons, all in agonising silence. John's feet remained planted, paralysed and useless, attempting to process what had just transpired. Sherlock brought the deep blue scarf around his neck and tied it at the front. Refusing to meet his doctors stare, he spoke to John's chair instead. The chair that hadn't answered back all those months ago when he was alone and high.  
"I'll inform Mrs Hudson that you'll be leaving and have Mycroft find you more suitable accommodation. I expect you gone when I return."  
John barely registered the door to the flat closing behind him, or the heavy wooden door downstairs banging shut. He suddenly failed to register much of anything except for the faint crackling of a dying fire.


	11. Chapter 11

John stared at the door as though Sherlock was going to miraculously change his mind and reappear until he could no longer fool himself. It was pointless to run after him or try calling him back, once the great detective had made up his mind that was that. It had all happened so fast, that turn of events, from a run of the mill argument that any couple might find themselves in, to being dumped and evicted simultaneously.  _ Doctor Watson _ ? Could Sherlock possibly realise how hurtful that was? To be addressed in such an impersonal, formal way after the intimacy they had shared was insulting. He ran back through what Sherlock had said before he had been so abruptly dismissed, a self sacrifice not ‘diminishing his warmth due to inadequacy’. What bullshit. How dare the selfish prick turn this back on him, like it was all ‘conserving his niceness’ instead of Sherlock being a coward and running away from the emotions he so detested.

 

He wasn’t just going to abandon his detective or be dismissed like an errant schoolboy. Sherlock was going to have to try much, much harder to get rid of him. And he could send his ghoulish older brother as much as he likes, the Holmes brothers were about to find out exactly how stubborn Doctor John Hamish Watson could be. Stomping off to the kitchen he pulled out his bottle of aged scotch, ironically a birthday gift from Mycroft, and poured a generous amount into a mug before slumping into his chair. Taking a large gulp of his drink and wincing as it burned the path to his stomach he frowned, his brow wrinkling up and mouth set hard.

 

Sebastian. The name rang oddly familiar in the back of his mind. He knew Sherlock hadn't spoken of him before. If he did, it's likely this implosion would have occurred much earlier in their relationship. It wasn't  _ too  _ common a name that he could mistake him for someone else. Had another person, his brother even, mentioned a ' friend' or 'colleague' or even 'someone from uni - '.

 

John rose forward in his seat. His back straightening hard and his grip on the mug starting to tremble. Sebastian. 'Seb'. Seb Wilkes. The Blind Banker.

 

He probed harshly at fading memories. It had been, what, the second? Third case they worked together? Maybe. An 'old friend' had asked for help and reflecting on when they were in the office with him, John remembers the slime dripping from the man but he could never figure out why. He came off so arrogant and pompous. Crude without actually saying anything overly offensive. He had found it strange that Sherlock was more eager to impress him than the usual bollocks where he almost made it his mission to offend them. 

 

_ "We were at uni together. He had this trick he used to do. Put the wind up everybody." _

 

_ "We hated him." _

 

John had put it all out of his mind and it had been filled with the new fascination of Sherlock's deductions yet again. Somehow claiming he'd been around the world twice in a month then suddenly dropping it and lying about how he came to that conclusion. He'd caught something that day slightly out of his peripheral that had been buried. As if he was attempting to protect himself from another tirade of 'being hated' for 'putting the wind up' him. John thought hard to bring it back up. It was times like this he wished he had his own Mind Palace. How helpful it would be to go back to arguments and conversations and pull words and expressions. 

 

He took another drink from the mug and pressed his eyes tight together. Turning his head slightly to the right as if he would see Sherlock, all those years ago in the clinically white office. He was met with a half shadow behind closed lids. A half of Sherlock that, upon hearing those words..

 

_ "We hated him." _

 

Sherlock had.. moved? Not moved in a sense but shifted in his seat. It was so minor, he's surprised he even picked it up on the first place, let alone that he can recall it now. It wasn't his whole body, though that had tensed. If only slightly. His face had tried to look away. From Sebastian. From John. Before that deep and baritone voice almost whispered, 

"I simply observed." John had never heard him sound so small. 

 

John brought the mug to his mouth again, eyes still closed and took another sip. He felt the smooth burn slide down his throat and once again turned his head slightly to the right, willing his detectives ghost to reappear. 

 

The half shadow repeated the action. He heard the words again -

 

_ "We hated him." _

 

\- and the shadow reacted. He could barely make out the expression through the curls down the side of his face but he looked.. pained. Hurt? At the words of some nobody he may have known briefly years ago. John himself couldn't have hurt him the way that sentence had hurt him.

 

John gently opened his eyes, half hoping he'd see  _ his  _ Sherlock sitting in his chair opposite him. Not a Sherlock tormented by cruel adolescents. Not one that found himself a burden, or a cold, emotionless glass to be placed over John's burning flame. The ludicrous imagery alone was enough to want another taste from his mug. 

 

If he ever saw Sebastian again, if he could just get his hands on him, he could make it look like an accident, he’d killed people before, albeit in combat in the medic tent, nonetheless, John was confident that he could dispatch Sebastian and never be caught. He knew Sherlock’s methods now, knew what the police looked for and consequently what they did not. It would be so easy….

John shook his head. That wasn’t the way to solve this. He still doubted Sherlock’s ability to entirely delete any distasteful memories but removing Sebastian wasn’t going to help anyone. Taking another sip he heard steps come up their stairs and rolled his eyes.

“That was quick, Mycroft.” he called out dryly.

 

The man in question appeared in the doorframe, leaning on his umbrella with a sombre expression on his usually impassive face.

“Doctor. Mind if I sit down?” Mycroft greeted John cordially, with an air of formality which only served to irritate John.

“Do as you like.” he waved at Sherlock’s chair and watched as the obscenely thin man settled into it. It rankled him to see Mycroft sitting where Sherlock should be, all bones and angles and that ridiculous umbrella. “Well spit it out then, what are you here for?” He snapped at the waiting man, John knew of course, but he wanted to hear it from Mycroft’s mouth.

“I’m here to help find you alternative accommodation. Sherlock has informed me that you two are going your separate ways and-”

“And I suppose that's it then. No asking what happened because you think you know already, don’t you? You think you know bloody everything so you don’t need to ask questions.” John raised his voice before regaining control and taking another sip from his mug.

“Sherlock merely said that your relationship has been terminated and it is no longer appropriate for you to live together. Naturally I am disappointed, your presence was therapeutic for Sherlock, but it is what it is.” Mycroft reasoned, his voice level but icy.

“But do you know why?” John pushed, with an almost sardonic tone.

“Please, do enlighten me John.” He drawled in response as though bored with the social interaction already and merely placating the angry soldier.

“Sebastian. That’s why.” Staring at Mycroft, John glared as the man tried to place the name and face and relationship to Sherlock. Like his brother, it did not take him long to recognise and bring up all the details to the forefront of his mind. John’s hand twitched and clenched into a fist before releasing rhythmically while he waited impatiently.

“Sebastian. Went to college with Sherlock. Friends, as much as Sherlock is capable of maintaining that sort of social relationship. Ceased contacting each other after college until the recent case of the Blind Banker whereby Sherlock and yourself went to his aid.”John snorted in response and shook his head.

“Now who only looks but does not see?” He threw the Holmes’ words back against them. 

“Stop being so childish. What does Sebastian Wilkes have to do with you?” Mycroft admonished him haughtily. He hated not having information, it was an unusual and uncomfortable feeling. John could see it in his face, trying to find a connection between Sherlock, John and Mycroft.

 

John waved a dismissive hand at the few remaining pieces of torn paper on the floor and the ones that had partially survived the fire.

“He made a schedule. He thought that was how a normal relationship works. According to the schedule we were to eat, sleep, fuck and work at dedicated times. Now where could he possibly have gotten that idea from?” Mycroft looked at the paper with an annoyed puzzled expression. “He believed that we should follow this schedule for a successful relationship. Would you like me to recite the rules to you?”

“Rules?” Mycroft repeated quietly.

“Yes, rules. Rules that Sebastian set down for Sherlock to follow. Rules like ‘being available for sex any time Sebastian wanted. Rules like ‘if he didn’t come before him then he wouldn’t at all.’ You let your brother deal with this guy? Get involved with this guy? The all seeing, all knowing Mycroft Bloody Holmes!?” John’s voice raised in a roar as he leapt to his feet, pointing a shaking finger at the repulsively thin man that was going a strange shade of grey.

“I had no idea….” He uttered quietly but John seemed not to have heard him at all and continued on his tirade

“And you have the balls, the utter indecency to come here and kick me out of the only place I can call home! No bloody way! You have to help me fix this now. And I’m not going anywhere, not without one hell of a fight.” 

 

All the energy seemed to leave John’s body in one breath and he collapsed into his chair rubbing his hands against his eyes. The two mismatched men sat opposite each other in silence for some time. Mycroft was processing the information and forming an action plan while trying to bottle his feelings of failure and inadequacy to be mused over at a more appropriate time. John used all his energy to remain in his chair and not give into his urge to punch Mycroft in the face. Again.

“What a mess.” He sighed, shaking his head and resting it in his hands.

 

For the first time, John and Mycroft agreed on something.

 

\-----------------------

 

Sherlock smoked cigarette after cigarette until he felt downright nauseous but continued until he ran out completely. He had disappeared within his mind palace in an attempt to remove all traces of both Sebastian and John but was finding it an impossible task. Usually it was simple, select the information for deletion, bring it forward from long-term to short-term memory and then briefly relive that memory within his sensory memory before the limited capacity of sensory memory deleted the information entirely. It was a painful process, the deletion of sensitive memories. To relive each memory with the extensive detail that Sherlock perceived it ran the risk of bringing with it some emotional response. Sitting on the hard slats of a park bench surrounded by the happy vegetables going about their uneventful lives he tuned out the noise until he seemed, to any observer, to be dozing. If only they were right.

 

He brought a different memory to the forefront of his mind and took a controlled breath as he accessed it. He could smell the damp autumn air laced with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves. Feel the chill in the air as winter announced its inevitable return. Sherlock retraced his movements, flipping his collar up against the wind and salty spray as he walked down the pier above the swirling ocean. He could clearly picture the man waiting for him at the end. The grim expression on his face as though he had been waiting for too long and Sherlock was late. Sebastian pulled him into an embrace that to any onlooker could have been sentimental but the tight grip around his wrist and the snarl in his ear was anything but.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Sebastian hissed, specks of spit indistinguishable from the sea’s spray against his ear.

“You know as well as I that you asked me to be here at 6pm and it is only 5:45.” Sherlock answered calmly despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. Sebastian had been playing these mind games for too long. Sherlock was ready for it to come to an end and Mycroft had started to become curious to his attachment. He had steeled himself to end this arrangement with Sebastian. Even he could see that this was not the normal relationship experienced by most and at the very least no longer served any kind of scientific purpose. Sherlock could recall with pinpoint accuracy the second the bone in his finger fractured and the sound it wrenched from his throat. His cry of shock and pain was overridden by a particularly loud crash from the violent body of water beneath them.

“You don’t ever talk to me like that!” Sebastian growled, claiming Sherlock’s mouth in a rough kiss. He remembered the hot breath over his lips, the way his teeth had caught on his and left him with the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. The rising feeling of shame as Sebastian strode away from him and the heavy throb of the new fracture. These emotions and sensations rose to his awareness and came alive in his sensory memory. Ordinarily, now was the time when Sherlock would fill that memory space with something mundane as the Periodic table or numbers of the Pi from its 52nd number. This rehearsal of well known numbers would usually replace the to be deleted memory from existence, however, in this case his senses remained alive with that evening. The salt, the metallic tang, the fractured finger. All remained stubborn and obstinately present.

Again and again he relived memories and repeatedly found them unable to be deleted. He hit his fist down on the bench in frustration and leapt to his feet. A small boy holding the hand of his distracted mother stared at him with open, innocent eyes. Sherlock glowered at him, in no mood to entertain the offspring of the idiots that populate the planet. The boy gasped and hid behind the legs of his mother who looked around for the cause of his distress but Sherlock was already stalking away. Why couldn’t he do it? It had always been such a simple, albeit unpleasant, task. And now, when he needed that skill most of all to quell the emotions he usually held at bay, it was inaccessible. Emotions were useless. Such trivial things that activated such chemistry in the brain to render even the simplest of everyday tasks overwhelming. A waste of time and mental processing space Sherlock had thought himself above and immune to such things. And yet here he was. He shoved his hands inside his pockets and tried to push the memory back down into the depths of the long term vault. 

 

\----------------------------

 

John watched feebly as Mycroft's black sedan disappeared down an adjoining street. His left hand squeezed tight and released, as if to release the overflow of the last few hours. He needed, even momentarily, to 'get over it'. They each had their missions, figuring it was best to split up and get more legwork done separately. John congratulated himself on what sounded like a pretty good excuse when in reality he needed to be as far as Mycroft as possible. The more time he spent with him, the harder it was to refrain from punching him in the face. It's not like Mycroft would stop helping him to find Sherlock if he did, he was every bit as worried as John was, but John still needed him somewhat functional to be of assistance.The rage pooling in his belly led him to believe he may not be once he was done with him. 

 

Mycroft had made one phone call within the walls of Baker Street and it had brought up three possible locations where Mycroft's own network had spotted Sherlock, or someone that Sherlock could be posing as. If the git didn't want to be found, it would be near impossible to find him. 

 

With the sedan out of sight, John turned in the opposite direction. The almost military 'about-face' coming naturally before he started down the street with his own orders and directions to follow. The elder Holmes brother was headed back to his Diogenes Club, naturally refusing to perform any actual footwork himself. Heaven forbid he behave like a normal worried sibling instead of returning to his position as "Watcher of the City" and have his all-seeing bloody eyes everywhere at once. Granted it  _ was _ useful. Maybe. John would never tell him that to his face though. 

 

It undoubtedly would have been easier to take a cab but John couldn't risk seeing Sherlock in the streets and not being able to run straight over. The dive from a moving vehicle would probably attract some attention and send Sherlock running in the other direction. Not that he was likely to be close to Baker Street. The fact that he wouldn't would be a perfect reason for him to do it. God knows where his head was at the moment and John would be keeping a keen eye out for a drama queen in a coat and an all too familiar blue scarf.

 

The further John walked, the heavier the weight grew that sat deep in his gut. He probably shouldn't have had so many sips from his mug so early in the morning but what other option did he have? Sherlock dropping a bloody bombshell on him like that. Expecting him to just walk away after everything - no. John stopped, furiously and repeatedly pressing the stupid button on the pedestrian walk, willing the lights to change faster. He needed to try and keep his wits about him. If, by some miracle, he  _ did  _ find Sherlock, he needed to talk to him like a civilised human being and not the current ball of rage that was slowly seeping through the rest of his system.

 

Taking deep breaths as he finally crossed the road, he attempted to script and rehearse what he could possibly say to Sherlock to make him realise just how much of a dick he was being. He understood that he was hurting. Well no, he couldn't begin to understand what he was feeling. Sherlock was a man of facts and numbers and research and definites and he built himself upon his knowledge. Built himself like a computer, as he liked to let himself to believe. If something in that was wrong, if files had been 'corrupted', would he honestly try to delete them? To delete John and everything they had shared? 

 

John's pace hurried as he desperately sought his destination. Sherlock was spotted there last night. Or early this morning. It had been hours since he'd been there but maybe, just maybe he'd let something slip to one of the staff about something. The more he thought about it the more useless it seemed. Mycroft was probably back at his desk by now sifting through newer, more probable information. Though if Sherlock had begun smoking again, there's every chance he'd need to buy more. There was still a chance he would go back.

 

It had been so long since Sherlock wasn't physically with him. Lestrade had been right, they'd been attached at the hip and probably far too much over the last few months. The empty space at his side taunted as he took wider steps, trying to outrun the void. An uncomfortable weight had shifted in him. The anger and hatred, directed mostly at his brother but at Sherlock too started melting away. Not vanishing entirely, just making room for something new. Or something old. John's vision began to blur and he sidestepped oncoming pedestrians to lean back against the brick of a building. He recognised this void. This black hole at his side and he could feel it sucking at him the way it had all those years ago. Sherlock was gone. Again.

 

He'd heard him, clear as bloody day in the cemetery barely months ago. He promised. He'd  _ promised _ him! He said he wouldn't leave again. He didn't want to put him through  _ that _ again. John sucked in harsh breaths, the streets beginning to spin around him. The pedestrians passing by distorting and bringing his surroundings down to crash together. He pressed his eyes tightly shut and let his fingers dig into the brick behind him. 

 

_ "Now that I have you.. Please know that I won't let you go.." _

 

_ "... I never want to abandon you again." _

 

The words rang clear, over and over again. John ducked around the corner of the building, just inside an alleyway and sank to his knees, balling his fists and pressing them to his forehead. He forced out the words and repeated them,

"He's not gone. He's not gone. He's not gone."

 

John tried to shut out the white noise around him. Passing engines, stiletto heels clicking on the pavement as they passed and distant chatter. It was all too much. His lungs had taken control of him, trying desperately to claim more oxygen. Images forced their way into his head from Barts. From the cloaked figure plunging from the rooftop and the sickening thud his brain would magnify a hundredfold over the next few years. Images poured in of bright red, horribly contrasting the beautiful alabaster skin beneath it. John fought them, repeating new words

"He's not dead. He's not dead."

 

John slammed a fist on the pavement by his side, shouting with everything he could muster.

"HE'S NOT DEAD."

 

Hearing his voice reverberating from the brick walls around him, noting the pause in public activity on the nearby road as passerbyers passed curiously, but not dare disturbing the headcase in the alley. John's breathing began to slow, returning to a normal pace. He had to find his stupid git. He needed to find him and at least make sure he wasn't in danger, if only from himself. Or to punch him in the face. Whichever would seem more appropriate.

 

He pushed himself back to his feet, still resting against the brick and noting the ache in the flat of his left hand. He'd clearly done some damage to it when striking it on the pavement. Fantastic. He could deal with it later. Nothing felt broken. As he flexed his fingers, making a mental note of what was damaged, he felt his phone go off in his jacket. Scrambling at his pockets, pleading that Sherlock had finally come to his senses, he let out an infuriated sigh when Mycroft's name had popped up on his phone again with a series of texts. It must have been going off for a while. Had he really not noticed before now?

 

_ Doctor Watson, honestly we don't have time for this. _

 

_ Get off the ground, you're making a scene and you have work to do. _

 

_ Doctor Watson. Don't make me send someone. _

 

And the newest,

 

_ Good. Get up and do your duty. We don't have time for this. _

 

Oh the nerve. The utter nerve. That ponce had no clue what John had gone through after Barts. The bastard  _ knew  _ that Sherlock was alive and kicking and didn't have the decency to say anything to him. Didn't have the decency to even check in on the bloody apartment he was paying for. Nothing. He knew without a doubt he'd been watching him. Only enough to make sure he wouldn't go off the deep end. Keep him alive so his brother would maybe, someday, have John to return to. As if he was a bloody pawn that only bent to the will of the Holmes brothers. To Mycroft. Now here he was telling John to  _ get over it. _

 

John pushed himself from the wall, the receded rage boiling in his gut again before struggling to refrain from throwing the damn phone at the opposite wall. After finally deciding firmly against it, he pocketed it. Refusing to dignify Mycroft's jabs with a response, he head back out onto the street and down in the direction of the closest corner store that would sell to Sherlock. John needed to find him. His current rage, emptiness and heartbreak be damned. He needed him now.

  
  


\----------------------------

  
  


It was only a matter of time before his homeless network came back to him. His brother was so perfectly punctual that he's surprised it took them this long. When the message had come back,

_ 221b Baker Street - Door knocker has been straightened.  _

 

he had begun the timer. Factoring in Mycroft's dramatic flair, John's possible overreaction and the inevitable 'Hudson Interruption', Sherlock calculated it would be approximately 37 minutes before they came to a conclusion and left the flat. Mycroft has a number of residences owned in case of emergencies and unforeseen circumstances so it would simply be a matter of John selecting one. Mycroft would have John's things gathered once they had left the flat, making for a fast and efficient meeting. 

 

Sherlock still rounded it up to an hour, figuring there'd be some factor he couldn't predict at the moment. His Mindpalace was somewhat compromised at present and Sherlock made every allowance for it. Perhaps when he got back to Baker Street the familiarity would help calm him and set everything in its rightful place. It had been so long since he tried to delete anything outside of the flat, perhaps the deletion process subconsciously sought out a familiar surrounds to be efficient. Checking his watch once again,  _ an hour and five minutes _ , ample time for them to have left, he broke from his lazy circling of Dorset Square Gardens and head back to Baker Street. 

 

Sherlock kept his slow and steady pace as he crossed roads and intersections on his way back. Keeping himself surrounded by busy London crowds, he made a point to stay as hidden as possible. He was a rather difficult man to lose, he knew that. Sherlock had a very distinctive and dramatic, in his own way, look about him that made him fairly easy to spot. If you knew who you were looking for. Undoubtedly his doctor would be keeping an eye out for him. Or he assumed he would. Ever the loyal doctor, even when told to leave well enough alone, he would follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth. He was an idiot like that.

 

Weaving as discreetly as possible, Sherlock found himself back on Baker Street and heading down to the flat, eager to return to its comfort and make another effort to delete Sebastian and John for good. It wasn't until he was almost at the door, a mere stone's throw from Speedy's and the heavy aroma of roasted coffee beans that he saw a black sedan parked opposite the dark wooden door. Between the car and the entryway to his flat was his brother, immaculate as ever and leaning gently on his black umbrella. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he proceeded, but only because John wasn't anywhere to be seen.

 

" _ What  _ are you doing here? I told you to assist John then leave. Which part did you have difficulty with?" Sherlock head straight for the door and began unlocking it, hoping Mycroft would take a hint and slither back to the hole he came from. As his pushed through the door, his left hand lingered subconsciously on the knocker, pushing it to one side.

Mycroft made an accentuated effort to show his tiring patience and gave his reply.

"Did you  _ really  _ think he would just 'up and leave'? Sherlock? You know he's in love with you. It takes a little more than 'go away' to get rid of someone so loyal."

Mycroft leant back off his umbrella and followed Sherlock through the door into 221B, closing it behind him.

"What do you know about loyalty? Everyone loyal to you is paid to do so."

 

Mrs Hudson opened her door at the commotion with every intention of welcoming the brothers and offering tea. As soon as her eyes met Sherlock's, she was met with an infuriated glare, clearly intended for the older brother following him up the stairs. She decided to leave them be.

 

Sherlock pushed his way into 221B to find nothing had changed. No moving boxes, no hurried men moving around the flat to return it to its pre-John state. Nothing. Sherlock found his irritation for his brother begin to increase tenfold. 

"Why is it still here?"

"Why is what here?" Mycroft smirked, knowing full well what his little brother meant.

 

Sherlock felt himself become locked in place, studying the all too familiar room and noting everything that belonged to John that would undoubtedly be gone soon. He wasn't sure if he was noting it for deletion later, or if he wanted to save them forever in his John Wing. Another file to be deleted regardless. 

"I know you were here with him. I told you to find him new lodgings and have him gone. Your people should have had this place cleared by now. What's going on, why is everything still here?"

Mycroft allowed him a brief pause. As if the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes would figure it out unassisted. He continued, preferring to be the one to tell him if he couldn't get there on his own.

"The thing about loyalty, Sherlock, is that it's so much more than devotion and allegiance. When combined with love it becomes truly stubborn and reckless. If we thought people were idiots before, it's no match for people with loyalty to a cause. How do you think wars are started?"

"Where is he?" Sherlock sighed with either exhaustion, defeat, or irritation. He no longer knew. 

"He's looking for you. He's certain that you two will -" Mycroft almost cringed, but kept his smile plastered in place, " - work through this little spat and emerge triumphant." 

 

Sherlock turned to face his brother. Anger rising again and the detective finding himself very short on patience for the contradictory flow of uncontrolled thoughts flooding through his brain. Did he want John to stay or not? If his brother wasn't here he would be able to think more clearly. 

 

"If he's looking for me that means he sent you to look for me too. You knew full well that I'd return, why didn't you tell him if he's so desperate to find me?"

"Because I needed a minute with you privately and John needed a direction to channel himself in. Ever the soldier." Sherlock made no effort to hide the dramatic roll of his eyes. 

"You have a minute. What do you want?"

 

Mycroft gestured with the tip of his umbrella for Sherlock to have a seat. He waited for a clearly irritated Sherlock to sit down before proceeding to John's chair opposite him and sitting. 

"Tell me about Sebastian."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a very quick one to build up before the final chapter then epilogue xo

  
John wandered into the twenty four hour convenience store without any expectations of Sherlock himself being there. This was one of many stores that were outside the detective’s exclusion zone and just as unlikely as the next to contain the man. None the less, John was committed to searching the area and that included seedy stores with flickering fluorescent lighting.

After stepping over the threshold John noticed the store was empty of people and manned only by a boy who looked barely over the minimum age to work with glassy eyes and the distinct smell of marijuana clinging to his clothing. John debated whether questioning the clerk would yield any productive information but decided to proceed and get it over with as soon as possible.

“Good evening. Have you seen a man in a dark blue trench coat, black curly hair and most likely calling you names in between his requests?” John asked quickly, not wishing to waste any further time in the dismal store. The man simply stared back at him as though John were a monkey from outer space and blinked slowly.  
“A who now?” The words seemed to dribble out of the barely open mouth. It was as if the effort to talk was overwhelming. John sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his his temples while his left clenched beside him.

“Man. Dark blue coat. Rude. Curly hair. Have. You. Seen. Him?” John broke up the sentence punctuating the last 4 words with childish gestures. His voice was tense as he reigned in his frustration and the urge to punch him in the face.

“Oh him! Nah, ain’t seen ‘im since last night.” The clerk responded. Suddenly his eyes widened as he stared at something behind John. “Hey, you can’t-”

John turned around slowly and was faced with a heavy statured man holding a glock. He raised his hands slowly above his head, his jacket rising uncomfortably with his arms. The comforting weight of his own gun, tucked into the back of his jeans gave him strength. All he had to do was bide his time. His professional training versus this amateur should see John safely through to the other side. The doctor only came up to his shoulder and he had to look up to see the beady eyes beneath the clown mask. He almost wanted to roll his eyes at how cliche this particular thief was but his military training forced him to be calm.

“Oi, get out. This don’t concern you.” The gruff voice ordered him away accompanied with a few flicks of the weapon towards the door. John looked toward the door, back to the thief and then to the clerk who seemed to be having his own internal conflict of whether to run or urinate on himself. “You there, open the register, I want it all. On the counter. Now.”

The clerk nodded slowly, processing the orders and began tapping at his register.

“Kid, leave. Right now.” John commanded quietly, turning his attention back to the assailant before noticing whether his instruction was followed. “Come on now, mate. Let’s not do this. If you leave now I won’t say anything to the police and neither will this young man. We never saw you. You were never here. Nothing happened. Do you know the jail term for armed robbery? Is it worth the crappy couple of hundred pounds in the register?” John tried to mediate the situation, instead of leaving as any other civilian would have. As it turned out, trying to be reasonable with this man was like trying to converse with an obstinate hippopotamus.

“Ways I sees it, I’m the one got the gun, so you’ll be doing as I say. Wallet, phone, on the ground now.” The man narrowed his eyes at John who lowered his hands slowly as if he were going to comply with the request.

“Don’t do this, mate. I’m having a bad day. Dealing with you is the last thing I need.” The man grunted with a gruff laughter.

“Do you think I care about your day? Wallet, phone on the ground now!” His voice boomed as he took a step closer to John, spittle flecks landing on his face and the gun now within reach.

“Rookie mistake.” John grimaced, “Never put a ranged weapon where someone can get at it.” He launched himself forward, grabbing the gun around the muzzle and using his inertia to twist it from the man’s meaty hands. However, this man seemed to have more training than John’s initial appraisal gave him credit. He didn’t resist John’s movement, instead moving with him to absorb that inertia and following through with a downward elbow striking John at the base of his skull.

John lay on the floor. Still, too still. His head was an exploding party of flashing lights and an intense ringing in his ears. The room slowly swam back into focus as a shadow fell across his face.  
“Couldn’t just leave it be, could ya?” The man extended his arm down, pointing the black weapon at him. John had always known it would end like this. Him trying to be a big, damn hero and getting a bullet to the brain as his reward. He closed his eyes. His mind briefly debating who would attend his funeral. Who would cry and who would stand there stoically staring at his gravestone. John imagined he could hear the gun’s trigger as the man squeezed it and kept his eyes closed. He wanted the last image to be of Sherlock, flushed and manic after a case. Sherlock’s cheeks red with exertion and a happy, serene expression as they lay together in bed.

The bright, welcoming chirp of the motion detector near the door alerted all of the occupants to a new customer. John’s eyes flew open and went straight to the newcomer.  
“Hey!” The elderly lady with greying hair and a tartan shopping trolley cried out as she saw John on the floor and the man looming over him. The robber gave a surprised grunt. As he turned around he pulled the trigger reflexively at the sound. The lady screamed and dropped her purse as all the occupants in the room were deafened by the gunshot in such close proximity. The gunman looked down at his weapon in astoundment as though shocked that it had fired. Following the trajectory to John who lay still, the blood already seeping through his shirt. The man panicked, fleeing the store with nothing more than the lady’s purse leaving John and the lady alone. The clerk was nowhere to be seen. John drew in a pained breath and clutched at his chest. He watched the blood bubbling with each breath, every inhale becoming shorter until he felt dizzy.

“Sherlock…” He murmured through tingling lips.

“Shhh, I’ve called an ambulance, darling. You must stay awake. They’re on their way-” John heard the woman talking at him as though from an adjacent room and watched as the room melted into a large fluorescent glow.


	13. Chapter 13

  
It was the smell Sherlock hated. The overly clinical and antiseptic cleanliness that left a jarring feeling all through his core. He had similar, if not the same products at Baker Street. Most of them were imperative to the human condition and could deconstruct an alibi purely on how one reacted to another. They were perfect and predictable. But here they were too concentrated.

At home they simply lingered. It was the combination of tea, old tobacco, gunpowder and the indefinable scent of John that made the hospital grade disinfectants tolerable. Made them comforting even. Like a combination of two worlds sitting comfortably together and being so separate from the rest of the world, but still coexisting perfectly and intertwined.

Here, the chemicals were overpowering. It made for one without the other and Sherlock couldn't bare the thought of how it sat alone. Without the other scents clinging to it, it made them seem too cold and empty.

It hadn't always been this way. Before John, the overwhelming scent of these chemicals were their own comfort. The repetitive and predictable nature of chemicals being far more appealing than the unpredictable nature of people. If he was in the lab at Bart's or at home with the stench filling the kitchen and, deliberately, the rest of the flat, he knew that _people_ couldn't be tainting his workspace. It was clean, sterile and uncontaminated.

He adjusted his scarf as he strode through the hospital, pulling it a little higher over his face. The last few months and their activities had given it the slightest scent of John. Not only his John, but John in the throws of passion and want. John _wanting_ Sherlock. It had the faintest aroma of sweat and his testosterone and the body of his doctor. It was so subtle that you could only, perhaps, make it out if it was right under your nose. Right where the scarf sat now.

Once Sherlock reached his doctor's room and his eyes fell to the perfect man, eyes gently closed and partially upright in that ugly hospital bed, he realised it had all backfired. He can't be here. He was only hurting John by not vanishing entirely. He needed this to be clean and he needed John to move on without him. He was too damaged and his doctor too wonderful.

Why had he even agreed to come here in the first place? Once his brother had received the text he should have seen that as sufficient time to rid the flat of John’s things, find him new lodgings and have him moved out before it was time for him to return home. That being to his new home. That would have been so much simpler but instead he had rushed to his side.

Sherlock took far too long to process the words out of his brothers mouth.  
“Doctor Watson’s gotten himself shot.”  
It had been a good few seconds before Sherlock thrust his Stradivarius, suddenly uncaring if he damaged or not as it landed in the open case. He left his brother in his flat, alone, as he dove down the stairs and took the first cab the passed, pushing past the man who’d called for it. Sherlock didn’t care, this was an emergency. He could be late to his meeting or dinner or whatever else boring people do. Sherlock couldn’t miss another minute away from John. Mycroft would have insisted he take his car, the ever inconspicuous black sedan that chauffeured him anywhere but Sherlock couldn’t bare it. He could barely breathe as it was without the thick and lingering presence of his brother making painful comments on the way over. No. If he paid the cabbie enough, which of course meant putting it on his brothers ‘tab’, he’d go fast enough. Surely enough, he did.

When he’d arrived at the hospital, they’d taken John into surgery. The useless receptionist refused to let him pass, whinging that Sherlock wasn’t an immediate family member or spouse. I had taken a few moments of, what could be loosely defined as, ‘heated discussion’ before Sherlock threatened to expose her affair to her husband, the affair obvious by the state of her wedding ring which brought back a sharp stab of a memory from a case so long ago. In a desperate effort to avoid that trail of thought, albeit far too late, he then threatened to ‘out’ her to the manager about her kleptomania for office supplies. It had only been a half guess, not enough evidence to prove it but little enough that she flinched, allowing Sherlock to assume he’d hit a nerve. Wonderful. With a forced smile and a curt nod, he followed the hallway down to Surgery.

He had been selfish. Some guttural and too-human instinct had kicked in and it forced Sherlock to be here. He had to make sure his doctor, who had been wounded so many times before, too many times, had made it through yet another blow. For whatever reason, John had been at that store with the inebriated idiot that had been held up. Perhaps if he wasn’t so high he could have reacted better. Called paramedics to the scene faster. It was a cruel and random act that should never have happened. John had been shot too many times. Sherlock found himself wondering if this one would scar too. He couldn't stay to find out.

The separation needed to be surgical. No more interactions. No more talk. Sherlock had said what needed to be said and lingering was doing no good. It was making him weak. He could feel it. His transport having more and more input on his brain was becoming insufferable. Yes he’d sat the countless hours outside of ICU. He’d been painfully avoiding slipping into his MindPalace on the event that the surgeon would pass him and he’d be entirely oblivious. Sherlock forced his mind to remain present, he noted the far away beeping of ventilators, the dim chatter of nursing staff and whatever other boring anchor he could cling to in the hopes he could just remain attentive. After too many hours and too many data filling his hard drive, he’d heard, somewhere, a surgeon mention a gunshot wound, a stable patient, and instructions for follow up in a few hours. That had to be John. He’d imagine there’d only be so many gunshots at this side of London, at this time of day. This wasn’t America.

So after hours of then, sitting at his side, the epiphany struck him. He needed to be as far away from this man as possible. For his own sake. Maybe Mycroft would let him use the jet again. Apparently Australia is nice this time of year. For a sauna of a country, anyway. It would make room temperature specimens more interesting. He’d made it almost to the main entryway to the hospital before realising he’d turned back. He needed one more look. One more glance at his doctor. One more goodbye before he left his life once and for all. It was selfish. Childish. He’d had all the goodbyes in the world. A forced one at Baker Street. The one when he’d first seen him as he left the surgery and was to be kept in ICU. The countless times it had almost come from his mouth as he sat at his side, only to be forced back down his throat by a heavy sinking in his gut. This one would be the last one. This was the final one.

Sherlock moved gingerly to John's side, resting a palm on the back of his hand. It was a gentle touch, too much and yet not enough. Not enough of a goodbye. He leant forward and softly pressed his lips to his doctor's forehead. Even in his rest, he seemed to be thinking too much. He needed to leave, and it needed to be now, before John woke. He took a calculated step back and straightened his posture before straightening the scarf around his neck. The faint scent of John was fading and the strength of the hospital chemicals crept back into his nostrils. He fought to keep his face neutral. He’d turned and had just made it to the door when a voice froze him in place,  
"So you were just going to run off then?"

Sherlock turned, his weary doctor looking up to him with.. relief? How could he be relieved? He got himself shot. _Again._ Because of Sherlock. He was in here because of Sherlock. Any pain John was in was because of him and he still looked at Sherlock like he was the sun. Looked at him with a warmth that he wanted desperately to return but he couldn't. He needed to leave. He was making every effort but his transport wouldn't obey.

His feet remained locked beneath him, unable to move. He willed at his body, aching with a want to be out of this room and as far away as possible. Away from his doctor and his ever-forgiving eyes, his warmth and his love. Yet somehow, and for some reason he could feel himself fighting it. Wanting nothing more that to curl up at John's side and be held until everything was alright. Would he do that for Sherlock? Sherlock, upon reflection, had said some things that could be classed as unsavoury. Or bordering unpleasant. Now that he was in a somewhat clearer headspace, perhaps now was the time to reason with the doctor and come to a mutual understanding of how toxic the detective is. Time to make his surgical incision. Time to be Sherlock Holmes

"Doctor Watson, I -"

"Shut up."

Sherlock's mouth hung open, chasing his prepared words, words he said earlier and needed repeating. His reasons for needing John to move on without him. His excuses. He tentatively closed his mouth, admitting defeat in a losing battle. If John wanted to say something he would say it. He hadn't given him the chance at the flat, it was only courteous that he offer him the chance now.

John's expression had shifted. Of course it had. It was always shifting. His doctor always had his emotions perfectly presented across his features. It made him so very easy to read and plan his conversations with. It also made him so utterly confusing. Why was he wearing such an expression when he did. He had his favourite expressions, naturally. His first and foremost being the wonder that lit up the very melanin in his eyes as he caught up to some deduction that Sherlock had easily come across.

The expression that he wore now, however seemed to be a combination of so many that Sherlock swore he saw one before it merged into something else entirely without it actually having shifted at all. Perhaps he should write a paper on the various and multitudinous expressions of John Watson. He studied them again, the tangle of features; the curious brow, the relief in his eyes, the anger subtly tensing his bottom lip. He could study these for hours.

"You promised you wouldn't leave again. Leave me."

Sherlock watched pointedly for any change. Anything that might give a hint to which emotion was dominating the others. Clearly he was irritated. Sherlock did say that, didn't he? In the cemetery. He remembered but that was different. He promised not to leave him in order to protect him and not to abandon him. He hadn't. This was different. He was allowing John to leave him. And it was still for his own protection. Should he point that out? He decided against it and let his doctor continue.

"I said that if you did.. Do you remember what I said?"

Of course he did. He replied almost instantly,  
"Next time I feel like running off.. to try and stop you from following me."

He couldn't miss the half smile that relaxed even some of the tension in his face. He felt it have the same effect on him. His wonderful doctor, ever the radiant and contagious man.

"Good to see you didn't delete that at least."

Sherlock held that pause for as long as he dared. Not wanting to admit his weakness, but ultimately giving in while John was still almost smiling.

"I couldn't. Delete it, I mean." Ever the expressionist. He noted the new changes and continued before he let them distract him. If he was going to admit another fault, he may as well have it over with. "I did try. It was tedious. I wanted to be rid of Sebastian first, though it seems some memories refuse to be deleted. Regardless of how hard I tried. It's never been that hard before."

John seemed to be studying the detective now, brows furrowed and those piercing eyes burning a path across Sherlock's skin. Is this how John felt when he was analysing him? It was terrifying. How could John stand it?

"Did you try to delete me? Delete us?"

Sherlock just said he did. Had John not heard?

"I tried."  
"Well clearly you know who I am and you remember at least one conversation between us so I'd wager it didn't go that well?"

Sherlock fought to keep his eyes from rolling. He settled for clenching his jaw, biting back comments he'd usually have no problems letting loose. His doctor was always a little slow. This was just rubbing it in. He even had the audacity to let a little more of that smile show. He let him continue.  
"Did you manage to delete anything?"

"It seems I was unsuccessful. Perhaps my brain has subconsciously figured out the method I use and is fighting against what is supposed to be the norm. I may have to work at finding a new method to bypass the natural -"

"So you still _want_ to delete me?"

This conversation was not going well. Sherlock could feel something tugging at his insides and it only grew worse when he heard his doctor's voice quiver on that last enquiry. He replied, somewhat quieter and with downcast eyes.  
"I don't _want_ to. I _need_ to."

John, remaining as calm and stoic as he could, even with every feature giving away his insecurities and his rage. Such a conflict written all over his face, yet he still spoke to Sherlock with a stillness. He truly wanted to understand Sherlock's reasoning, as if he didn't already.  
"I told you, John. Files have been corrupted. I cannot continue ..” he gestured emphatically between them” “- _this_.. with you if I have been wrongfully informed and educated on the principles."

"And why is that."

This was becoming tedious.  
"Because I am now _uneducated_ in how it's supposed to function, meaning I lack the understanding for us to be -"  
"Functional?"  
"Well, yes."

John let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. Perhaps this conversation should have been saved for when John wasn’t almost immediately out of surgery and heavily medicated. When he opened his eyes again, he turned his attention to the ugly blanket he'd been fisting in his lap and smoothing it back out.   
"Sherlock.. What Sebastian did to you - What he taught you -"  
"He fed me lies."  
"He did. But there was also some truth in there. I'm not denying he's a complete cock and given an opportunity I'd probably shoot him in the face but at the end of the day.. I think he accidentally taught you something he didn't mean to."

Sherlock, having somewhat regained some control over his legs, was now moving towards the bed again, taking a seat in the chair beside John. He'd given up fighting it. As he drew closer to John he caught a fresh scent of the harsh chemicals and he knew that the clinical scent would be forever tainted. It could never return to the clean and singular solution it had been before. It would always be incomplete. One can't be without the other and one felt wrong on its own. Sherlock untied his scarf and gently removed it, letting it fall and bundle at the base of John's bed, longing for the real thing.

"What could I possibly have learned from him that wasn't false or not worth immediate deleting." Sherlock felt his face soften. He had only just now realised, having sat down, that his transport was exhausted. It was used to minimal sleep but the events of the last 24 hours had seemingly left it drained. He welcomed the rest the chair gave him, even if it was only momentary.  
"I think.." His doctor began. He winced somewhat as he tried to shift in his bed to better face Sherlock and try to hold his attention. As if John wasn't the centre of Sherlock's universe. "I think he taught you something important. About not trusting people. About how ugly people can be. You're a genius Sherlock. I refuse to believe that not one single part of you thought that what that man was doing to you was right. Because of him, I think, you overlook people. Generally. That's what shows you facts and numbers and details because you don't care about the person."

Sherlock anticipated a flinch that never came. Was that supposed to offend him? Was John trying to be rid of Sherlock by pointing out his flaws? He would have come immediately to that conclusion if it weren't for that look of wonder. That favourite of all John's expressions that Sherlock had clung to since he had first met him and dragged him, limping, to the woman in pink. Rather than try to anticipate the end of the conversation without all the facts, he again remained quiet and let his doctor continue.

"I think, he was in some way responsible for how you see the world and, in its own way, is amazing. Because of it, you come to conclusions the rest of us don't see or it takes us God only knows how long to catch up to you."  
Sherlock cocked his head gently to one side. Was John _praising_ part of what made him so inhuman?  
"You see the facts. You don't let things distract you. I used to think it made you a machine but the more I see it -" John stumbled over his words. As if he was choosing them both too delicately and not delicately enough. As if he knew what he wanted to say and didn't simultaneously. He was clearly fighting the rising pain of his new bullet wound and perhaps the pain was pulling his focus from what he was trying to say to his detective.

"The more I see it, the more human you are."

Such a ridiculous statement. Of course Sherlock was human, what else could he be. Granted he did see himself as something above the typical, in his brother's words, goldfish. He knew his intellect and disregard for his transport made him different. Perhaps merely self aware of the human condition whereas lesser idiots just held on for the ride, giving into their transports every whim. Sleeping when it deemed appropriate instead of necessary. Eating for the sake of eating instead of simply a fuel to keep him in working order. In a way, he supposed he was very similar to a machine. He didn't have any abundance of emotion or empathy. Those made people weak. But the way he cared about John Watson..

He could write books on every detail about his doctor. The colouring of his eyes and his sandy blond hair. The raised star on the back of his shoulder. Every physical aspect of the man that he had memorised over the passing months and years seemed never ending. That, however, paled to the way John made Sherlock skin tingle whenever his fingers brushed against his. The way his arm draped across him in the middle of the night and fought back any numbness, allowing something akin to safety to sink into the core of him. How he gave 'warmth' a whole new meaning that wasn't simply relevant to tangible items or temperatures. John had awoken something in Sherlock that he had never had before. Something he never saw himself as missing, but it was now something he couldn't live without.

Sherlock needed John to stay with him at any cost. To ask him would be selfish. He knew that. But he needed his warmth. He needed his gunpowder and cinnamon and tea to be forever part of his disinfectant and tobacco smoke. What if he had ruined things with a jump to conclusions? He had wrongfully predicted a conversation with John while he was there in front of him and had left without giving him suitable chance to defend himself. Perhaps this was his moment to beg forgiveness. He had never begged in his life, though if it meant John staying, he would make every effort.

"Alright it's getting a bit scary now."

What was? Oh, Sherlock hadn't moved or said anything since John had finished talking. He was staring at him now, expecting some sort of response. Expecting dismissal, some intelligent, yet arrogant remark, something in response to yet another revelation at the hands of John Watson.

"Stay with me." Given John's face, that clearly wasn't the reply he was anticipating. After an initial moment of surprise, his wounded doctor followed it up with a gentle smile, begging not to give too much away.  
"It'll be a bit awkward me living with you if you can't remember who I am."  
"I could never delete you, John."

It had come out faster than he had hoped but it was true. His silly little doctor who always surprised him was, somehow, _not_ infuriated. Or he was but was waiting till his wounds had healed before giving Sherlock the right beating he deserved. Either way John brought a tentative hand over Sherlock's and laced his fingers through his detectives.   
"I should think not. No one would put up with you without me around."


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for your kudos, your kind comments and for putting up with my slow and imperfect updates. You mean the world to me and I literally would not have finished this without your support. Thank you so much xoxoxo

  
The ropes dug into the skin around John's wrists, but not in a pinch. The rope had been a very high quality silk that undoubtedly cost more than most of John's wardrobe. They'd been a gift from Mycroft which donned the humiliating realisation that Sherlock had told them about their activities together. Mycroft, being the picture of nonchalance that he was, saw it merely as another opportunity to buy his younger brother's affections and make some sort of unspoken apology for not knowing about Sebastian. It worried John at first, but his detective had soon seen that he was sufficiently distracted.

The way the rope was wrapped thrice around his wrists and again up his forearms kept him securely in place. The intricate ropework was expertly applied and after many months of practice and research that John, naturally, was happy to be a part of, Sherlock had finally found a tie and harness that didn't affect John's shoulder all that much. It still ached slightly. That wound was never likely to heal completely. But the tie Sherlock had found kept most of the pressure balanced and off his injured shoulder. Especially in his current position.

John had tried many things in the passing months after his newest bullet wound. Sherlock, having rediscovered the excitement of sexual fulfilment found that John being incapacitated for a month or so simply would not do. He had found other ways to pleasure his doctor without so much as a strain on his chest. The only discomfort being when he began to pant or breathe too hard and Sherlock had claimed that was hardly his fault. John, the medical man that he was and thankfully so, knew how to maintain his treatment for the duration of his recovery which in turn sped it up quite substantially. John was so very thankful they could resume their previous activities. Especially since the scare that had precursored the wound.

Even before that, it had taken a little encouraging for John to allow Sherlock to tie him in this position. Even with the correct tie on his shoulders and the firm cushion raising his abdomen from the bed, he had his initial concerns with his arse being forced to hang in the air, knees frogtied to either side of him. It had felt a little humiliating the first time, especially when Sherlock had taken his time to get started. He could feel the detective's eyes on him again though the longer they burned into his skin, the safer he felt. He'd been under that piercing stare so many times before it was a wonder how he survived without it. Once he'd heard the hitch in Sherlock's breath, he'd decided that he must surely be a sight to his detective. Anything that could take his breath away must have been something, indeed.

This time Sherlock was starting out tenderly, gentle fingertips running down his sides, over his hips and across any remaining evidence left behind. He'd spent the last few days being especially careful with John seeing as how the bruises and red marks had only recently healed. John had cherished them. Everytime he pressed his fingers into them he was reminded of what put them there in the first place, or who, and become almost instantly hard and craving Sherlock's attention for the rest of the day. Though now, John needed more. He'd had his days of healing and reminiscence and his marks barely hurt when he'd dig his fingers in. He needed his detective to mark him again. Claim him as his own, in case anyone ever had a doubt. John needed Sherlock to be rough with him now. A feeling that had grown intoxicating since they'd first discovered it in Bucharest.

John never took himself for a 'kinky' person. His previous lovers had all been rather vanilla and John had no complaints. He knew he was a skilled lover, he'd proven it to Sherlock many times over, but there was something about relinquishing control over to the man that lit a fire in his belly and and made the climb to his orgasms that much more intense. He felt it much deeper than he had without it and now that he had it, he'd found the danger and taboo of it addicting.

It had taken some adjusting, naturally. There was a few times early on where, if not immediately after, the next day he'd feel - for lack of a better word - empty. His usual patience with the stupid things that Sherlock said or did was basically nonexistent. He'd snapped at Lestrade and Molly on separate occasions and he'd cried through several showers, hoping his detective wouldn't find him behind locked doors. He hadn’t felt this worthless and physically exhausted since his nightmares which seemed to have abated. He even called in sick to the surgery on more than one occasion. It wasn't until Sherlock explained to him what a sub-drop was that he didn't feel so alone. He knew deep down he _couldn't_ feel alone, not with Sherlock and everything they'd almost lost. His new understanding of his post-scene drop helped him combat it in future and Sherlock was more than happy to assist where he could. He'd hold him through the night and dote on him so much it was, frankly, a little frightening. If they hadn't worked through those scary few times together, John doubt he'd have the courage to be where they are now.

Sherlock took such good care of John, in every way. Perfecting the balance had taken time, each giving the other enough space to not be driven completely out of their mind by one another. Sherlock had written a number of new pieces on his violin and had updated his blog with seemingly useless information he deemed important. He’d added another 7 pages on his blog about varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres and finished another two separate ones. One was entirely on the intricacies of ropework, one John had to double check before it was posted to ensure nothing incriminating was on there. Another was the analysis of perfumes and a deconstruction of intricate notes found within the more common ones. John on the other hand picked up a few more shifts at the surgery and had a regular Thursday night at the pub with Lestrade. They were becoming pretty good friends actually. The breather from Sherlock was appreciated and the time spent away made him more eager to return to him and return to moments like this.

John was immediately pulled back from his thoughts as Sherlock eased a slick finger into him. He mouthed feebly at the blue scarf and sunk his teeth into the fabric. He had forgotten how long he'd been left presented like this but the sudden contact, and an invasive one at that, was pure bliss. He'd started to become hypersensitive of his surroundings, yet somehow he'd still blocked out when Sherlock had moved closer to him.

The tip of his cock was already dribbling precome but had nowhere for it to escape to. Sherlock had ensured the cushion propping him up was out of reach for it, leaving it to bob under his stomach and search desperately for friction. Given the way he was helpless against his restraints, any reprieve would only be given at the hands of Sherlock, and not before he'd decided it was time.

"I typically loathe to repeat myself, John," Sherlock sung out in his delicious baritone, "but it needs to be emphasised how truly breathtaking you are like this. So eager and willing." John all but purred at the fabric in his mouth, his hips beginning to shudder as the single digit slid in and out at an agonisingly soft and slow speed, until it wasn't. Sherlock had removed his finger completely and John whimpered at the loss. He pushed back, hoping his finger, his cock, hoping anything would return and drive back inside of him.

He let out a fascinated sigh,   
"Look at you, my dear John. You're so desperate and wanting, pressing back but finding nothing but the open air. I bet if I held my finger back out, you’d slide back onto it, wouldn’t you? You'd take anything I offered, I wouldn’t even have to move my hand, you’d do all the work for me."

John tried to move his head in a nod. If he agreed and showed how willing he was, would Sherlock give in to him easier? Sherlock knew as well as he that he needed more. He'd gone near a week without it and Sherlock was dragging it out. He knew what he was doing, he always knew when it came time to take care of John. That didn't mean John wasn't impatient about it.   
“Not yet, though.” Before the bound man could make any protest, his voice was taken by the delicate hand tracing along the edges of his thigh and he shuddered. “You’ll have what you want, Captain. But not until after.” John felt him rise off the bed and a hopeful anticipation lit within him.

John tried to twist his head and catch a glimpse of Sherlock out of his peripheral. After that had failed him, he pressed his eyes closed, willing his hearing to improve and pick up any clues the detective would be leaving as to what was in store for tonight. He knew the array of toys and implements they had accumulated and when he’d not heard the distinctive zip of their black bag, one introduced to him on the way to Bucharest, he knew it was something bigger. Something that didn’t fit in the large duffel at that meant only one thing. John felt his whole body quiver in anticipation and simultaneously relax into the position he’d need to be in for tonight.

Sherlock rested a hand on the small of John’s back and rubbed a thumb along the skin.

“We’ll start with the riding crop”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I own nothing - Characters and similarities belong to ACD and the interpretations to BBC and co.
> 
> Warnings will be added as chapters are.


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